


Cu Sylvatica

by sprl1199



Series: Becoming [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if this is the tipping point: that moment that everyone seems to be so certain will someday occur when he tosses off whatever exists of his threadbare sense of ethics to live life entirely at the whim of what is interesting and what is not.</p><p>He wishes the concept didn't appeal to him so strongly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlock Big Bang Challenge on the LJ comm sherlockbigbang.
> 
> Long Summary:
> 
> After the events of the Great Game, Sherlock and John are called to assist the police on a murder investigation. Sherlock--convinced that the victim’s missing flatmate is the key to the investigation--finds himself unraveling a complex web of faked identity, kidnapping, and blackmail. All the while, he and John work to come to terms with the scar that Moriarty left on their lives and the possibility of his return. The difficulty is compounded by seemingly everyone in Sherlock’s life appearing to expect him to take Moriarty up on his offer of criminal partnership.
> 
> The worst part is that Sherlock isn’t certain that they’re wrong.
> 
>  **A/N:** Firstly! Be prepared to suspend some disbelief, as (if it’s not immediately clear) I am not a scientist, a police officer, a forensics expert, or British. If you are any of these things and find anything contained herein laughable, then by all means laugh! I hope you have as much for reading it as I did writing it. :-D
> 
> Copious thanks to the amazing work of my BFF beta finangler, without whom this story would have been completely incomprehensible. And EXTRA-SPECIAL appreciation to the fabulous (dare I say stupendous) grenegome who beta’ed, Brit-picked, offered vastly improved turns of phrase, and just generally saved me from myself.
> 
>  **ART!!!** Visual art (including a COVER) was provided by the lovely and talented emerish and can be found linked from my LJ. A fanmix for this fic, Tertium Non Datur, was created by the marvellous the_arc5. They both did a FANTASTIC job, and I am so honoured to have had the opportunity to work with them. Their work breathes such life into the story. I highly encourage everyone to pop over to their LJs and rave IN ALL CAPS about their products.

It is nowhere near as dark as it should be, given the situation. And despite the glare from the fluorescent bulbs above, the lights of the snipers’ sighting beams are vivid.

“Sorry, boys,” says the sing-song voice. “I’m so _changeable_! It’s a weakness with me, though--to be fair to myself--it is my _only_ weakness.”

The shimmering, almost fluorescent water should by all rights be the centrepiece of this scene, but Sherlock finds himself entirely unable to tear his gaze from the gleaming points of darkness that are the eyes of Jim from IT (not from the hospital at all, and not so forgettable).

John is still crouched against the wall. The red lights dance over the planes of his face, and--in the glance Sherlock spares himself before turning once again to the immediate threat--he sees only calm readiness. John’s jaw is clenched tightly, but this is the only sign that he is in any way affected by their predicament, and Sherlock feels himself steady.

Until that confident, intimate voice crawls once again into his ear and rips his poise entirely to tatters.

“You can’t be allowed to continue,” Moriarty says. “You just can’t. I would try to convince you,” a rueful exhalation of breath, as studied and flawlessly delivered as the rest of the man, “but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

Moriarty’s eyes are riveted on Sherlock, and his expression is mad and certain. As if he has already foreseen how this will go, how Sherlock will react. Sherlock is not familiar with being predictable, and the idea that Moriarty knows him causes something low in his chest to twist and his palms to go sweaty. His heart is pounding too fast in his ears, setting a tempo to events that he cannot control.

The red and blue striped curtains that circle the tableaux remind Sherlock of a circus tent, though he had never been in such a place and does not know why the comparison occurs to him. With the night sky above him--the stars vividly luminescent points despite the ever-present haze of London’s light pollution--there is a sense of vertigo: the tent turned inside out; the world on its head.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours.” He tells the mad man acerbically, arm entirely steady (though how he manages he has no idea; he has never felt so shaky) as he aims at the vest before raising his eyes once again to Moriarty. Unbelievably, the man smiles.

Approvingly.

The consulting criminal walks toward him slowly with a predator’s grace, and with every step, the dark suit cloaking him blurs and distorts into churning, insubstantial shadows. The sight makes Sherlock dizzy, and he finds his eyes closing involuntarily as nausea wells in him abruptly. He feels rather than sees the other man come to a stop before him, too close.

He smells of explosives. And ozone.

“I _have_ loved this.” Moriarty murmurs. “This little game of ours.”

Sherlock feels hot all over: tiny pinpricks of heat pushing against his coat and flushing his cheeks. He hears Moriarty chuckle at this tell, and forces his eyes open through force of will.

The darkness has completely enveloped the other man’s body, but his eyes still shine like unholy artefacts, and Sherlock cannot look away. The curtains that ring the pool have pushed closer around them and begun to spin sickeningly. The air feels too thin as it is ripped by the flapping fabric.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock,” he lingers over the name, “just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world.”

 _This isn’t how it goes_ , Sherlock thinks dizzily. _The order is wrong._

Belatedly (too late!) he remembers John behind him and tries to turn and look, but Moriarty grabs his chin and holds him still, his grip like steel.

There’s blood on his enemy’s hand, and Sherlock feels it running in rivulets down his throat. Moriarty’s gaze follows the path gleefully, licking his lips as he watches the liquid stain Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock opens his mouth to tell him to release him _at once_ , but that is not what ends up emerging.

“Please…” he hears himself say in a somewhat hoarse, almost breathy voice that he never uses, not even in those fantasies that occasionally come to him in the middle of the night after he’s given up on sleep, and Moriarty‘s grin widens. _No_ , he thinks. _No_. But he can only stand there, stricken and weak.

“I’m a specialist, you see,” Moriarty says almost conversationally, his hands tightening cruelly on Sherlock’s chin. “Like _you_.”

It hurts, and Sherlock finds the strength to reach up at last--gun and flatmate lost somewhere in the madness swirling around them--and tries to force the man to release him. The blood is slippery and shockingly cold, and it doesn’t allow him any sort of grip. His own hands are covered now, and as he continues to struggle ineffectually, the dark colour lies dramatically and mockingly against his pale skin. All is spinning darkness now, and the voice-- _soft, she said_ \--won’t stop. He cannot block it out (where is John?).

 _Like **you**_.

 _Are you pleased to see me?_

 _My dear_.

**

Sherlock lands on the floor next to the sofa in an ungainly heap, knees and elbows fighting against what he realizes belatedly is an afghan that John must have draped over him. Weak, grey light is filtering in from the window along with the sound of London traffic and the sharp laugh of a group of pedestrians leaving the sandwich shop beneath the flat.

His heart is pounding rapidly, and he’s covered in a cold sweat. Ceasing his battle with the blanket momentarily, he lies on the floor--the scuffed wooden board cool against his flushed cheek--and closes his eyes as he attempts to calm his breathing.

Moriarty's leering visage, eyes fever bright, flash immediately behind his closed lids, and he sits up abruptly.

Sleep was overrated anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

When he pushes back into the flat some hours later, the sun is just dipping down from its zenith, and John is shrugging off his coat, the scent of antiseptic wafting in the air.

He looks fatigued, though no more than a morning seeing to the medical needs of London's residents would warrant, and his lips are pursed in a contemplative expression. The look blanks at Sherlock's entry, and is followed immediately by raised eyebrows and lips twisted in the beginnings of amusement. It takes years from his face.

"You're always after me to do the shopping," Sherlock says defensively at the expression of faux shock, shifting the bags awkwardly in his grip. "Don't act as if this is without motivation."

"It's without precedent," John replies in that bland tone of voice he favours as he takes one of the bags (the heavier one, the martyr) and walks into the kitchen.

"Was there something particular that you wanted?" John calls over his shoulder. "You could have phoned. Or texted. I could have picked it up after work."

"I am perfectly capable of navigating a supermarket,” Sherlock replies with dignity, trailing after him slowly.

In truth, he hadn’t planned on doing the weekly shop. Endorphins are proven to lighten moods, and though Sherlock had internally scoffed at the idea of resorting to purposeless _physical activity_ , he had taken a brisk walk through London’s streets, distancing himself from the flat and the lingering air of nightmare. After an hour or two of wandering he had found himself in front of a Tesco and walked in on a whim.

John makes a sceptical sound, peering into the bag. “And you thought we simply couldn’t do without three cartons of milk and five packages of Alpen?"

“You like Alpen," Sherlock points out. “I’ve seen you eat it on multiple occasions. You had it last Tuesday with coffee and toast.” The walk had been as ineffectual as he had anticipated at elevating his mood, but this—John’s presence and the comfortable familiarity of the flat—is proving to be a more effective remedy. A knot of tension has been lurking between his shoulder blades since the nightmare. It eases as he slides into the rhythm of their banter, melting away with the sense of impending danger that had been wearing away at his nerves.

The feeling left behind is, unfortunately, one that Sherlock has become all too acquainted with in recent weeks: a metaphorical itch under the skin seemingly composed of two parts wariness, one part terror, and more than a dash of expectation.

And boredom of course. Sherlock had expected after those intense, terrifying, _exciting_ moments at the pool, his craving for stimulation would have been satiated for a time. That he seems now to feel the pinch of boredom more acutely than before is unexpected. Coupled as it is with even more frequent sleep deprivation, he is feeling perpetually on edge: standing atop a precipice of indeterminate elevation. He is uncertain if he would be better served by being pulled from the brink or by throwing himself over it to relieve the unsustainable tension.

He wonders what, if anything, that reveals about him.

John is giving him a strange look--the one he favours when Sherlock has presumably said something awkward--but smiles.

The smile vanishes when he gets a view of the kitchen table and sees the remnants of Sherlock‘s latest foray into forensic chemistry.

“Sherlock!” he exclaims, sounding far more aggrieved than the situation warrants. “What did we say about leaving your chemistry set-ups in the kitchen? Can’t you put this in your room? It’d hardly be an inconvenience. God knows you’re never in there.”

It’s a dig at his new sleeping habits, and--as every time his current tendency to only sleep when he falls insensate with exhaustion on the sofa is brought up--he bristles.

“ _We’ve_ also said that _we_ have a prohibition against chemicals on the floor,” he says tartly. “Unless you’ve reconsidered letting me move the table into my room, this is the only raised surface large enough to conduct experiments.”

John doesn’t roll his eyes, but Sherlock can tell that he wants to, which is basically the same as if he had.

“What is this, anyway?” his flatmate asks, gesturing to the array of vials and beakers. Unconcernedly out of place in the strewn apparatuses, a small, somewhat ornate cast iron statue of a tree rests in the place of honour in the centre of the table.

“A minor project. I'm attempting to restore a worn off inscription on the base of antique statue through the application of copper chloride. It's a process currently in use for the restoration of filed-off serial numbers.”

Despite himself, John looks interested. “Oh yeah? Have you made any progress?”

“I’ve restored only half of it, but I already know what it says: ‘ _Ce que l'homme redoute le plus, c'est ce qui lui convient_ ,’” he recites. At John’s obvious incomprehension (and clear fascination with hearing Sherlock speak French), he continues. “It’s a quote from the nineteenth century Swiss philosopher, Henri Frédéric Amiel.”

John is amused as he reaches toward one of the beakers. “I can only assume he has something to say on criminology as well, since you remember all those details about him.”

“Don’t touch that,” Sherlock orders quickly. John stops reaching as directed but does not move his hand from where it is hovering near the substance.

“That’s hydrofluoric acid," he continues. “It's highly corrosive, and can readily lead to chemical burns.” John draws his hand back at once, looking slightly alarmed.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t eaten through the beaker yet, actually,” Sherlock muses absently as his mind launches through the requisite calculations. “I had anticipated the structural integrity of the glass would have broken down an hour ago.”

John looks outraged, but it is at that moment that Sherlock’s mobile rings, so he does not get the opportunity to give voice to the blistering response he is clearly planning.

This does not stop him from insisting Sherlock move the acid to a more appropriate container immediately.

 

**

The call is from Lestrade hailing him to an address in Hackney in an area characterised by warehouses conversions typically frequented by artists, criminals, and the desperate. John elects to come along, as he so often has since the events at the pool, a slightly short but entirely capable sentinel at Sherlock’s shoulder whenever his time allows.

(There has also, Sherlock cannot help but note, been no sign of the pretty and surprisingly accommodating Sarah in recent weeks, and the outside demands on John’s time were much lessened.)

Sherlock appreciates the company--and John is always excellent company, given his endearingly open awe at Sherlock’s deductions--but the implication that he needs backup during his trips to Boots for nicotine patches is…unsettling.

Not that he has need of the nicotine patches, of course. Lestrade had requested him frequently in the last month, but always for extremely simple problems that he is certain the police could have unravelled without his assistance. And given Lestrade’s calm, easy tone during the phone call hailing Sherlock to the crime scene, it is likely that this case will be similarly simplistic. It has occurred to Sherlock, of course, that the DI is calling upon him so often in order to distract him from recent events (despite protestations to the contrary, he is perfectly aware of the various forms that kindness can take). Or is perhaps simply asserting that it is business as usual in London.

And it truly is business as usual. Despite his departing promise at the pool to return, there has been not even a whisper of Moriarty in the intervening weeks, and Sherlock is not certain how to quantify his reaction to the continued silence. Relief for the continued safety of himself and those around him? Dissatisfaction in the missed opportunities to fully bring their interaction (competition) to a close? Disappointment that their battle of wills remains on indefinite hiatus?

Despite his subconscious’s interpretation of events, the actual resolution of the standoff at the pool had been far less dramatic:

With only one (desperate) course of action available to save both himself and John, Sherlock had aimed the gun at the vest of explosives. And Moriarty had--in reality as in his nightmare--smiled in delight.

He tilted his head to the side as he surveyed Sherlock, eyes falling to half-mast in lazy pleasure.

“Well _done_ , my dear,” he exclaimed. “Willing to go hard, are you? I must say, I was certain you had it in you, though it is nice to see it--” he pursed his lips in a movement that was in no way unintentional, “borne out.”

Moriarty stood there for a moment, entirely nonchalant despite the danger of an imminent explosion, as Sherlock furiously commanded himself not to let the gun waver for even an instant, lest the other man see it as a weakness to be exploited.

Moriarty had seemed to come to a decision then, taking a deep breath and shrugging expansively.

“Since the situation looks to be getting, oooh, serious, and it’s obvious that you aren’t interested in discussing our present and _future_ association civilly,” he said in a low, casual tone, face mocking, “I will withdraw.”

He had turned to go, and despite the words, Sherlock had tensed, certain that he would be shot at any moment.

“Oh, but Sherlock,” Moriarty said, pausing and glancing over his shoulder at the detective. His eyes were endlessly predatory. “I _will_ see you soon. And I expect when I do, you’ll be ready to parley. We’re going to have _such_ fun together.”

And then he had left, the snipers’ beams winking off as soon as he turned the corner out of sight.

Sherlock had remained in position for a good three minutes after his departure, not trusting that all was as it appeared; that they were safe. John finally had to force him into movement, grabbing his shoulders and stating (correctly, Sherlock was forced to admit) that if they truly _did_ have the opportunity to leave, they should do so immediately.

Sherlock had to use his left hand to peel the fingers of his right off the gun as they ran, they were so rigid.

But it seemed that Moriarty and his gunmen had truly left the area. John had phoned Lestrade--who had appeared within minutes--and then later Mycroft, but though both men brought teams of agents to comb the area, there was no indication that anyone had been there at all.

For the first week following the scene at the pool, Sherlock hadn’t slept. Instead, he spent hours with the case notes from the “Pip” crimes, to which he had added the details of John’s abduction. The continual reminder that John had been plucked from the streets so _easily_ was a surprisingly powerful motivation to find a fresh lead in the minutiae of the evidence. But there was nothing to be found, and on the seventh sleepless day he had apparently blacked out over his microscope at Bart’s.

Sherlock wouldn’t have left even then, had he not been beset by a distraught Molly, a worried John, and two burly, discomforted medical students who bundled him into the nearest cab to Baker Street. He had compromised by bringing the case files back to the flat and stacking them near the sofa where he would rest when John insisted, and that was the state in which the investigation had remained.

He had been through _everything_ from every conceivable angle, but Jim Moriarty had disappeared entirely, and no one with ties to the entire business who remained had ever even met him in person (save Molly, and her usefulness was as limited as Sherlock had expected).

Sherlock had protested the first time Lestrade had requested his assistance on a problem that in no way related to Moriarty, but even he had to admit at its conclusion (as simple as it had been) that turning his intellect to other mysteries and away from the endless cycle it had been locked in was beneficial. He was blunting his mind, theorizing ceaselessly with no facts to base his conclusions on, and if he continued to do so, he would be in no fit state to match wits with the man when at last he returned.

All that is left to do is wait.

And continue to work on other (less interesting if less dangerous) cases, apparently, he muses as they pull up at the address in Hackney.

The location they have been called to is of the same ilk as much of the area: a crumbling, brick warehouse whose second storey has been converted to very basic, utilitarian lofts. This particular conversion houses what looks to be a shipping company on the ground floor, though it is unclear--given the signs of dilapidation--if the company is still in business.

Crime scene tape already stretches across the metal, utilitarian staircase leading to the flat, and Sherlock ducks under it with his usual disregard for boundaries. The officers holding the perimeter know who he is. And if they don't, they should.

Lestrade is waiting for them at the landing, the door to the flat swung open behind him on a neatly broken frame (kicked). His face is grim, but given that it is his typical expression, Sherlock doesn't put any stock in it signifying that this crime scene is particularly unsettling or surprising.

Therefore he is caught entirely unawares by the small, brown shape that darts out of the flat and launches itself at his chest.

He doesn't yell, but it is a near thing, and it is only his observation of Anderson through the open doorway--clad once again in the ill-fitting, blue SOCO suit--that allows him to stifle it.

It's a dog (obviously), he realizes immediately as he blinks down at it. A small, brown and grey dog with ridiculous swoops of fur like cowlicks over the entirety of its body, nosing inside his coat and snuffling as its tail wags happily.

It is a state he hardly ever succumbs to, so it takes a moment for Sherlock to realize that he is at a loss. He is about to pat the dog on the head (that is accepted behaviour in regards to dogs, he believes), when he is saved--as has become the habit--by John.

John who is smiling widely at the animal and falling to one knee on the landing.

“That’s a good boy,” he says to the mongrel, which immediately stops sniffing at Sherlock and runs to him, head low and tail wagging furiously as he stares up with wet brown eyes. John ruffles the fur at the dog’s scruff and looks entirely too happy at the situation.

Lestrade’s lip is twitching, but to his credit, his face doesn’t become a hair less professional. “We found him locked in the closet. He’s tender on his left side--likely from being kicked--but otherwise fine. Neighbours say he belongs to the victim.”

At the word ‘victim’ Sherlock looks back into the open flat door, but John doesn’t move.

“What’s going to happen to him?” John asks, frowning slightly as he rubs the dog’s ears.

He is clearly asking Lestrade, but it is Sally--standing just outside the doorway of the flat and looking amused--who responds.

“Most of the time we’d call the dog warden to keep the animal until we contact the victim’s family and friends to see if any of them would be willing to have him,” she said, smirking not at John, but at Sherlock. He begins to feel a slightly sinking feeling.

“Although in this case, perhaps you could watch him for a few days. Instead of him waiting in the animal shelter,” she grins shark-like in Sherlock’s direction.

He opens his mouth to assert that this is absolutely _not_ an option, but before he can John interjects.

“Really?” his flat mate asks, looking to Lestrade for confirmation. At the DI’s nod, he swings his head immediately toward Sherlock, the dog following suit.

Confronted by two pairs of soulful eyes--one brown, one blue--there is simply nothing to be said, so he doesn’t even try.

Instead he pushes somewhat roughly past Anderson to examine the scene, hearing as he does so John’s brief exchange with Sally to keep the animal until they transport it to their flat before she departs.

The flat has an entirely open floor plan, and as such he is able to see the wreckage of whatever crime had occurred immediately upon stepping inside.

The kitchen table is overturned, dishes (two place settings) strewn across the floor. The telly has been smashed, most likely by a boot given the pattern of the cracks across the screen, and a bookshelf of cheaply pressed wood lies in pieces: the various knickknacks that previously adorned its shelves broken and shattered atop it.

But the most violent aspect of the scene is the body of a young woman thrown carelessly across the sofa. Blood blooms from a wound in her chest, and her final expression--like so many that Sherlock has seen--is one of blank surprise.

She is pale and cold, rigor mortis beginning to dissipate, and skin showing clear signs of hypostasis as the blood pools and congeals (dead approximately 36 hours). She looks to be in her early 20s: roughly cut hair dyed blonde, pale skin with a dusting of freckles. The eyes--still opened wide, though Sherlock has never allowed this to faze him--are a pale blue.

She has grease under her fingernails--the nails themselves painted a bright, opaque yellow where the polish hasn’t chipped away--and the soles of her shoes are worn almost through (waitress).

Standing, he estimates she would be five feet two inches, perhaps 115 pounds. She is dressed in a hoodie a size too large for her for the University of Reading and a denim skirt.

Lestrade and John have come into the room behind him and are standing quietly.

“Who was she?” Sherlock asks the DI, moving onto the remainder of the flat and looking in briefly at the bathroom.

“Joanna Fowler, no record,” Lestrade replies, voice dispassionate though his eyes are sad, as they always are when a youth is the victim. “Twenty-two years old. Worked as a waitress at a cafe in Islington. Anderson estimates she was killed between midnight and four a.m. the night before last.”

Sherlock makes a sceptical hum, and John moves to the body to confirm the estimation, gloves already donned. Anderson mutters angrily from where he still stands near the doorway, but Sherlock ignores him.

“And her flatmate?” he asks Lestrade.

The DI knows better than to ask him how he had deduced the presence of a second person in the flat, so he is spared the tiresome explanation of the second place setting and the obviously borrowed pullover.

“Alice Toller,” Lestrade says instead. “Twenty-three. No current employment records that we can find. She’s been picked up in the past for solicitation and drug possession, though nothing in the last couple of years. There’s been no sign of her for the last twenty-four hours, according to the neighbours.”

“Think she was involved? A cat fight turned serious?” Anderson asks sombrely (though Sherlock doesn’t know why he bothers, as Sally is not within earshot).

“Having a key, I doubt she would need to kick the door in to gain entry,” Sherlock says dismissively before turning back to Lestrade.

“And did the neighbours have anything else to say?” Sherlock asks as he minutely examines the floor (footprints: obviously outlined in dried mud against the cheap concrete; likely male by their size).

Lestrade opens his notepad with no doubt unintentional flourish, though he does not need to refer to it as he recounts the findings from the area’s canvass.

“According to the Nixons, the neighbours in the building to the east, they remember hearing the dog barking two nights ago at 3:30 a.m. It interrupted a late showing of Filthy Rotten Scoundrels, which they were fairly irate about. They’re insomniacs. Evidently the telly is the highlight of their nights.”

“And they didn’t come to investigate?” John asks, now conducting his own perusal of the broken bookcase.

“Apparently this isn’t the type of area where neighbours take much interest in one another,” Lestrade observes dryly. “The Nixons weren’t even certain of how many tenants live in this particular flat. We had to pull the postal records. They heard nothing else for the rest of the night, and no one else in the area heard or saw anything at all, though that’s not surprising given the distance between the buildings.”

“Who reported the murder?” Sherlock asks. There is a bed pushed up against the far wall, strewn with bright, colourful pillows and a somewhat raggedy plush bear, its blankets pushed askew. A wardrobe stands beside it with all its drawers pulled open. A second bed, pushed to the opposite side of the open space, is made up pristinely with expertly folded sheets and well-fluffed, innocuously decorated pillows.

“Joanna’s boss at the cafe called to report her missing when she didn’t show up at work yesterday. According to him, she was very dependable. The officer who came round for the welfare check found the broken door and made entry.”

“Boss,” Sally hails from where she has reappeared in the flat. “The business across the way has a security camera that picks up part of this building. We’ve got the footage from two nights ago pulled up for us, and there’s something you should see.”

“Good job,” the DI responds, already making for the door. Sally looks unbearably smug, and Sherlock makes it a point to use his longer stride to push through the doorway before her as he follows Lestrade.

**

Anther’s Custom Framing is situated in a dusty corner of the neighbouring warehouse. Sherlock supposes he should be grateful they have a security camera at all, given the evidently poor income of the business, but what the video reveals is less than useful.

“There, you see?” Sally says as she points to what anyone with adequate vision could see is a male figure at the edge of the screen (slightly above average height, average build, seemingly a young man with an empty backpack resting on his shoulders). Partially out of the frame from the start, he is seen climbing off of some type of motorbike before moving out of the camera’s view entirely. Fast-forwarding the video to approximately 15 minutes in the future, the same figure can be seen remounting the bike and departing in a hurried furl of exhaust.

From the glimpses Sherlock has of the bag at the man’s departure, it is evident that it is stuffed full.

“The camera doesn’t cover the stairway to the flat,” Sherlock says disgruntled. “There’s no evidence this man went upstairs at all.”

“It’s _evidence_ that he was in the area of the crime at the time of the crime,” Sally shoots back with a glare. “Which is in turn _evidence_ that he should be found and questioned.” Sherlock doesn’t disagree with this assessment, but he is never in favour of giving any ground to Sally.

“The time stamp says 4:30 a.m.,” he points out instead. “The dog barked an hour before.”

“So?!” she says in exasperation. “The witnesses had the time wrong. It’s not unheard of.”

“They were entirely certain of the time thanks to their knowledge of the television schedules. Unless Filthy Rotten Scoundrels aired an hour late two nights ago for no apparent reason, then the dog barked at 3:30. Not 4:30,” he returns stiffly. “You cannot discount their statement because it doesn’t fit into the timeline you’re deciding it should.”

“I fast-forwarded through the entire tape, and there’s no one else on it! At 3:30 or otherwise.”

“Which proves precisely how useless it is in illuminating what went on that night.”

“Children, please,” Sherlock hears Lestrade mutter as he continues to peer at the screen. Sherlock turns his glare upon the DI while John attempts (inexpertly) to mask his chuckle with a cough. As always, Lestrade is entirely unaffected.

“Can we get a copy of this?” the DI asks the seemingly sole employee of the framing business: an overly helpful, skinny young man with greasy hair and a dirty t-shirt.

“Of course!” he agrees readily. “Err, Constable. You can have the whole thing. We won’t be needing it.”

“Right. Thank you.” Lestrade turns to Sherlock. “We’ll do our best to enhance this and identify the man in the image. Prior to that, have you got any ideas of where he may have gotten to?”

Sherlock has a very good idea. “Not at present,” he lies effortlessly. “Text me when you have more information. Preferably something I can actually use. Shall we, John?” Without waiting for a response he strides out of the building.

John jogs after him on the pavement, and Sherlock automatically shortens his stride to accommodate him.

“So, what was that about then?” his flatmate asks as they walk slowly back toward the crime scene. There is nothing further to be deduced from the flat until the forensics tests are completed, and Sherlock reflects on the most efficient use of the intervening time.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you lie to Lestrade?”

“How do you know I lied to Lestrade?” Sherlock asks in surprise. He realizes even as he says it the implication of guilt, and sees from his smile that John does too.

“I know you well enough to know when you’re being less than honest,” John says calmly.

“You do not,” Sherlock asserts, mentally reviewing the scene. He hadn’t given any sort of tell, he was certain.

John simply waits him out, and Sherlock relents. John is his assistant in such matters, after all. “The man in the video is not the murderer. It is obvious he is involved to some extent, but if anything, he’s assisting Alice Toller in hiding from those who mean her harm.”

John stops and looks at Sherlock incredulously. “How do you figure that?”

Sherlock sighs, but inwardly he’s pleased (as always) to have the opportunity to outline his deductive reasoning to John.

“The murder occurred at 3:30 a.m.,” he says. “The Nixons are certain of the time, and the muddy tracks on the floor--tracks that any experienced abductors would know better than to make--were tracked in after the violence was over: obvious from the fact that in several instances they are on top of the mess on the floor. They also show a clear track from the door to the wardrobe, the pantry, and then out again.”

“Hold up a tick, abductors?” John asks confused.

“ _Abductors_ ,” he confirms. “Their target was Alice Toller. Joanna Fowler was unfortunate enough to get caught in the flat when they arrived and was killed. Perhaps she tried to stop them from taking Alice, but there is no way to be sure.”

“Why do you think they were after Alice rather than Joanna or someone else entirely? What makes you think there was an abduction at all?”

“You saw the state of the flat: there was clearly a violent and prolonged struggle, involving multiple persons, yet the murderer was also in possession of a firearm, a Glock or something similar. If the murderers simply wanted either girl dead, they would have shot them immediately. No, the struggle was a result of their attempt to capture one of them. Since Joanna was eventually killed, it is not too much of a supposition to speculate that their target was Alice Toller. Alive.”

“But why? Why go to the trouble of kidnapping her? She clearly isn’t particularly wealthy, and she doesn’t seem like the sort to have a wealthy family from Lestrade’s description.”

“Unknown. For the moment,” Sherlock responds, the characteristic feeling of exhilaration in the face of a challenging puzzle welling within him. “But I’ll be certain to ask her when I find her. Hopefully before her abductors recapture her.”

“Come again?”

“The wardrobe, John,” he says a touch impatiently. “The drawers were open, but it is unlikely they were pulled out during the struggle. Someone went through them in a hurry while packing. Alice Toller would presumably know better than to return to the scene. Ergo, the man in the video is a friend who came on her behalf, and it is his muddy footprints in the flat. She escaped from her kidnappers and needed supplies for her continued evasion of them. He was kind or idiotic enough to oblige.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” John says sceptically. “The murderers could have opened the drawers themselves looking for something. Maybe something that was worth killing Joanna for. Alice might not be involved at all.”

“So your supposition is that the murderer threw Joanna Fowler around the room in an effort to force the location of some unknown valuable object out of her, shot her, walked outside in the mud, and then returned inside to fetch the item before stopping in the kitchen for a snack on his way out?”

John flushes. “I’m just saying that you seem to be jumping to conclusions ahead of the facts. Perhaps the man in the video was an opportunist. He saw the flat open, went inside _with muddy shoes_ , rummaged around for valuables, and then left. He may not be related to Alice Toller in any way.”

“Your analysis is sound except for one fact that you seem to be forgetting.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” John says beginning to sound annoyed.

“The dog: he barked at 3:30, per the Nixons, but not again during the rest of the night. Isn’t that curious?”

“You’re saying that the man wasn’t a stranger,” John says slowly. “Okay, I can see where you’re coming from. So where are they then?”

“I know where he _was_ ,” Sherlock corrects, “and with any luck, where he returned to.”

“And where is that exactly?” John asks, face resigned and amused at the well-used routine.

“Lambeth,” he says with relish. “Or possibly Southwark. Near the river. The mud of the tracks was distinctly from the Thames, and given that it was still wet enough to leave an impression on the floor, our mysterious biker could not have travelled too great a distance to reach the flat. There are only a few places where one can easily access the bank, and based on their proximity, Lambeth and Southwark are the most likely choices. Knowing what we do about the fleeing woman’s history and finances, it seems probable she may have associates to call upon from Lambeth, specifically due to its high population density and crime rate. As it happens, I have a few contacts there.”

“Of course you do,” John says dryly. “But before we head off to spend hours combing the banks of the Thames, we’ll need to run by the flat.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock asks impatiently. “Alice Toller has almost a 36 hour head start. If we don’t get to Lambeth at once, any clue of her passing may be completely obliterated, if it hasn’t been already.”

“Thirty minutes won’t make any difference,” John replies calmly. “We need to drop the new boarder off first.”

“The new boarder?” he questions flatly, feeling his excitement dissipate as he realizes (with mild dread) that he already knows _exactly_ to what John is referring.

“The dog that we‘ll be looking after,” John returns, smiling brightly at Sherlock’s obvious unhappiness and demonstrating his well hidden sadistic streak.

“I wonder if Mrs Hudson has any sausage we could give him,” John continues as he moves toward the sound of barking coming from one of the police cars parked by the building.

Sherlock makes a sound of complete exasperation, but John ignores him, and no one else is within earshot, so the drama is wasted.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Sherlock’s complaints, bringing the dog to the flat had not taken any longer than John’s estimated half hour. Mrs Hudson was, perhaps surprisingly, overjoyed at his arrival, and when they had departed at last for Lambeth, the mongrel had been happily lapping at a bowl of milk the landlady had set before him.

Sherlock has no difficulty believing that Lambeth has the highest population density of any of London’s boroughs: the streets are close, and cars and buildings hem the pavement with such looming intensity that the foremost feeling for an individual on foot is one of claustrophobia. Sherlock prides himself on not being prone to such illogical and baseless phobias, though he is forced to admit that the sheer number of pedestrians he is required to sidestep and dodge is not comfortable in the least. Nor is it conducive to keeping track of John, despite his height advantage. He swings left to stay within hearing range of his flatmate, who does not seem in any way put out by the endless crowd.

“Who’s this contact of yours, then? Another graffiti punk? A forger? A madam, perhaps?” John asks as they stroll down the cracked pavement. His tone is joking, but Sherlock can tell from his eyes that he is half expecting an affirmative answer.

“A _madam_?” he parrots. “What sort of company do you think I keep?”

John scoffs. “You know perfectly well what sort of company you keep: burglars and miscreants and persons of dubious moral character.”

“And you,” Sherlock points out.

“I suppose that’s true,” John allows with a small smile that makes Sherlock’s stomach go warm. He coughs to shake off the feeling, and uses his longer legs to move ahead. John is forced into a half jog to keep pace with him, and they walk for a time in silence.

“What if Alice wasn’t the target?” John asks, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance as they move swiftly along the pavement. “Let’s say your abduction theory is correct--“

“It is.”

“—but what makes you so certain that Alice was the target rather than someone we haven’t identified? There could easily have been a third person in that flat.”

“Possible but unlikely. You saw the flat as well as I did, and there was no sign of any temporary or long-term guests: two place settings at the table, two toothbrushes, no extraneous luggage or clothing lying about. And of course, there’s the very obvious fact that there has been no sign of Alice Toller since the murder.”

“About that,” John questions slowly. “If someone tried to abduct her, why hasn’t she gone to the police? Why try to hide out on her own?”

“I wouldn’t want to speculate without knowing more about her background, but the answer that presents itself most obviously is that she is either afraid of the police or she feels she can be assigned some guilt in what occurred.”

“You think she was involved in the murder,” John says. He doesn’t sound surprised. Despite Sherlock’s dismissal of Anderson’s (idiotic) theory, with one flatmate dead and another vanished, it is not a difficult conclusion to come to.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replies, “though I do not believe she was an active participant. If she were a member of the group that shot her flatmate, it seems highly unlikely she would have sent a single individual back an hour later to collect clothing and provisions on her behalf.”

“I suppose we’ll ask her when we find her,” John says, though he looks strangely ill at ease. After another minute of silence, it is clear that he has more to say (he fidgets very obviously), and Sherlock is not disappointed:

“You’re really sure about this?” John asks at last. “That Alice Toller is on the run from shadowy villains and has gone into hiding, possibly with the man from the tape, and possibly with some guilt in the whole affair that’s keeping her from going to the police?”

“We just went over this.”

“Granted, you explained it pretty well. But still: abductions, escapes. It’s all a bit complicated.”

Sherlock draws in a deep breath and grins broadly. “I know, isn’t it wonderful?” he asks gleefully.

John doesn't smile at his theatrics. If anything, the down turned lines of his mouth indicate worry.

"I've lost my taste for complex puzzles, I think," he says at last.

Sherlock doesn't follow. "Those are the worthwhile ones," he points out. "The ones that make you feel focused and alive. Don't deny it; I know you agree with me. How is that not an improvement over something obvious?"

"They're also the ones that might kill you," John points out. "And these days, I can't help but wonder if they don't have something or someone at the root of them."

The implication is obvious, and Sherlock feels his prepared argument in favour of adrenaline and its relation to thought processes die at the look of something akin to sorrow on his flatmate's face.

"I also can't help but wonder if you would prefer it if they did," John finishes, voice soft but laden with meaning.

Sherlock does not have a reply to that. At least, not one that John would enjoy hearing. Not an honest one.

In truth, he does on some level desire Moriarty's reappearance. Though whether for an opportunity to see the man in the hands of the authorities or for a second test of his skills against the only truly worthy opponent he has found, he has been unable to determine. Given his inability to embrace either one motivation or the other unequivocally, he imagines it to be a bit of both.

John looks at him expectantly, and when Sherlock does not respond, the look of sadness (of disappointment?) deepens before he turns away, eyes resolutely trained ahead of him.

The silence is awkward, and Sherlock feels an urge to apologize. He suppresses it, of course, because one should never apologize for the truth. Though he much prefers John's smiles.

“My contact is down here,” Sherlock says at last gesturing to a dark, narrow alley whose walls are entirely covered in graffiti. A foul smell wafts toward them, and there is more rubbish on the pavement than remains in the bins. John raises his eyebrow in blatant and unvoiced scepticism.

He still follows when Sherlock leads.

Coming to the far end of the alley, Sherlock darts through a dented metal door, the blue paint peeling away in numerous places to reveal the dull grey beneath. In the small revealed passageway stands another door, this one scarred wood, and Sherlock pauses. He gives John a conspiratorial glance and waits a dramatic moment before pushing it open with flourish.

And reveals a bakery: warm yellow paint adorning the walls and the smell of pastries on the air. The old woman behind the till--somewhere in her sixties at the very least--looks toward them and yells.

“Sherlock _Holmes_! You close the door at once! You’re lettin’ the heat out.”

John laughs, and Sherlock knows it for the victory it is.

**

Marie’s (for that is the name of the owner and sole employee) flat is above the bakery, and she sees them settled comfortably in the kitchen--cups of tea steaming beside them--before she will hear a word of Sherlock’s reason for coming to her.

It is only once she has perched herself in a tattered, overstuffed armchair that is incongruously placed against the far wall near the sink that she looks at him in expectation.

“Alice Toller,” he says, wasting no time. “She’s twenty-three, and has history with the police for prostitution and drug use. She’s missing, but I believe she may be hiding somewhere in Lambeth. I’d like your help in finding her.”

Marie takes a leisurely sip of her tea before answering.

“Why you lookin’ for her?” she asks, not belligerently, but with a cool glance that makes it evident that her assistance will depend entirely on Sherlock’s response.

“Her flatmate was killed two nights ago. There are signs of a struggle, which I believe was the result of the murderer or murderers attempting to abduct Alice. I need to find her to discover who is responsible.”

The old lady continues to sip her tea, face unmoved as she stares him down. It is John who speaks next, leaning forward as he attempts to appeal to her empathy.

“She’s in danger,” he says earnestly. “Whoever killed her friend is still looking for her. She needs our help.”

“Bah,” Marie says in disgust. “What can the police do? Lock her away somewhere while they stand around with their thumbs up their arses? Eh, they’re bloody useless.” John blinks at her profanity, but doesn‘t look away.

“We’re not the police,” he says steadily. “And we really do want to help her.”

Marie throws her head back as she laughs, a surprisingly young and rich chortle. “Ah dearie,” she says, “I’m old, but I’m not senile. I might believe it of you, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before this one here does something for the sake of decency.” Her finger, gnarled and strong from years of kneading, points at Sherlock. He stares at her steadily without speaking, and after a moment she sighs and shakes her head.

“I don’t know where the girl is,” she says flatly. “I’ll ask around. Have you got a picture of her?”

Sherlock pulls out his mobile with the intention of showing her the electronic copy of Alice Toller’s mug-shot that Lestrade had forwarded to his email when John beats him to it.

“Yes, I do,” he says, pulling a photograph of the two girls, arms about each other’s shoulders, from his jacket pocket and presenting it to her. “She’s the one with the red hair.”

Marie grunts and stands, muttering about needing her bifocals as she disappears further into the flat.

John is smiling at him broadly, and Sherlock realizes that his surprise must be showing noticeably on his face.

“I nicked it from the flat. It was in the rubble on top of the broken bookshelf. No one will miss it, and I thought we could use a photo of her to show about” John explains, looking (adorably) pleased at his subterfuge.

“Well done,” Sherlock says, genuinely meaning it.

One aspect of John that continually delights him is how entirely surprising he can be, even when Sherlock thinks that he _surely_ has enough data to predict his actions and responses.

Like all thoughts regarding the delightfulness of John, this one is buried immediately: deep in that secret, shielded portion of his mind where they will not distract him, but where--he occasionally admits to himself--they will be safe and treasured.

**

When they are again walking the pavement in search of a cab, the sun has set, and the last remnants of daylight are quickly fading as night slips in from the east.

“Why did she say that?” John asks as he leisurely snacks on a pie that Marie had insisted he take with him. Sherlock had not been offered the same. “About you not doing something for decency?”

“I would assume because it’s true,” he responds dryly, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat as the chill of the air becomes more noticeable. “I doubt anyone would refer to me as ‘philanthropic.’”

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” John says slowly. “But why specifically did she say that? Did something happen?”

Sherlock takes a moment to decide how best to respond. Many would argue that the truth is always the most fitting response, but it has been his experience that people do not always react to the truth as well as they think they might. He decides at last that in this case (the case of John), it is the only acceptable option.

“Her son was arrested and convicted for theft two years ago.”

“And, what? She asked you to look into his case and you couldn’t prove him innocent?”

“He wasn’t innocent,” Sherlock corrects. “I was the one who brought him to the attention of the police.”

“Is that how you met her?” John asks, confused. “Looking into a theft and found her son?”

“No,” he replies, refusing to hesitate over his words. John isn’t going to like the answer, regardless of how he phrases it. “She and I were already acquainted after I assisted in apprehending a gang that had been vandalizing her bakery. She’s been one of my informants in the area for almost five years now. I was visiting the bakery when her son came in, and I deduced from his manner and appearance that he had just shoplifted from a location nearby.”

“I had only recently begun to receive acknowledgement for my methods, and I was attempting to demonstrate them, not realizing that an off-duty constable was in the bakery as well. He was there for something entirely unrelated, of course, but he felt it was his duty to take the man into custody. Marie’s son would likely have been released with nothing more than a small fine and a single night in a holding cell, but he panicked and fought the constable who was arresting him. He was sentenced to two years in Brixton prison for assaulting a constable and resisting lawful arrest, as well as the original theft.” He pauses. “He committed suicide one year into his sentence.”

“What did he take?” John asks, his voice going a bit flat as it dawns on him what may have happened.

“Two packets of cigarettes and a bottle of coke.”

Sherlock only very rarely feels shame, but when he remembers that day, he wonders if perhaps that isn’t what the small, uncomfortable ball in his chest is. Logically he knows he was not responsible for Marie’s son’s reaction to being taken into custody and subsequent sentencing. Yet he also is able to vividly remember the high he had felt as he boastingly outlined the details of the crime visible on the man’s person: his mind illuminated and quick (run through by lightning) as the facts linked together in an indisputable map leading to the final, damning conclusion. He had felt untouchable, brilliant, a virtuoso of thought.

It was unsettlingly similar to the state he had regularly induced in himself through the use of cocaine and the feeling he had gotten so recently from solving Moriarty’s puzzles, which is--he thinks--where the problem lies.

“I’m surprised Marie doesn’t hate me,” he says, realizing only as he voices it that he feels on some level that she should.

“Well, it’s clear she actively dislikes you, if that helps,” John offers, giving him a sidelong glance.

Sherlock blinks, but his black mood--come upon him so suddenly--breaks and disperses like fog touched by the sun (not a comparison he will _ever_ make aloud).

“You would make an absolutely abominable therapist,” he tells his flatmate.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, thanks.” John says with a grin that he cannot help but return.

He is still grinning when Lestrade rings Sherlock’s mobile and calls him to the station.

**

The grainy stills from the framing shop’s security camera had been enhanced and blown up as much as was possible with the most technologically advanced techniques that the Met has access to.

It is still, Sherlock reflects as he stares at the final result, entirely useless.

The image--as he had known immediately upon first glance--is of a young man (perhaps 21 or 22 years old) of average height and build. The shadow on the face of the original image has been clarified enough for a casual observer to note that it is clearly a beard, though Sherlock had been ninety per cent certain that it was already.

The man’s eyes remain overly dark and grainy due to the fall of the lamplight. Sherlock thinks that perhaps he looks spooked--eyes wide and face a bit pale--but this may be a fanciful interpretation on his part.

“And how precisely do you expect this image to help us?” he asks Sally, allowing disdain to fully colour his tone. She bristles (as expected), but it is Lestrade who answers.

“We’ll be comparing it against photographs from our system and showing it to Joanna Fowler’s co-workers and neighbours for an identification,” the DI says calmly from where he leans against a desk. “Obviously.”

Sherlock ignores the mild dig, scrutinizing the photo one final time. He, Sally, and Lestrade are standing in a small office in the portion of the building reserved for Cyber Crimes that Sherlock hardly ever visits. John had taken the opportunity to return to the flat and check on the animal (Sherlock is telling himself firmly not to be jealous), leaving Sherlock strangely feeling slightly outnumbered.

A line of computers sit quietly along the wall, their hard drives powered down and silent. It is late enough that even the technical experts--many of whom elect to work their own, frequently unusual hours--have departed for the day.

"This man did not murder Joanna Fowler," he says with finality.

Sally rolls her eyes and makes a muted sound of irritation, but Lestrade simply crosses his arms and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

"He should be identified," he goes on, "because he is obviously involved in the situation at least peripherally, but if you assume he is the man responsible, your search will be completely inefficient."

"How do you mean?" Lestrade asks, face giving away nothing of how he feels about Sherlock's statement.

"I mean, obviously, that a man who has just committed a violent murder will behave very differently from a man who is innocent."

Sally scoffs. "Psychology? From a sociopath? Now I've heard everything." Lestrade shoots her a surprisingly heated glare and she quiets immediately.

"Additionally," he goes on, pretending not to have noticed either Sally's comment or Lestrade's unexpectedly protective reaction to it, "if you assign him a motive ahead of the facts, you will not be able to accurately predict his actions."

"And you think that he's helping the other girl hide out from a gang of some sort?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock had briefly recounted his analysis of the crime scene to him upon arrival, though he had made no mention of his deduction of where the pair had fled.

"Precisely."

Lestrade does not look convinced, and Sally makes a (ridiculous) face of extreme scepticism.

"So you think that the man the camera _did_ see is innocent, and that a mysterious, apparently invisible gang of murderers that no one in the neighbourhood saw any sign of is responsible?" she asks, eyes bright with disdain. "Good deduction, that."

Sherlock is preparing a blistering retort when Lestrade interrupts.

"Sergeant Donovan, will you please check with the lab on the status of the forensic evidence from the flat?"

It is clearly a dismissal, but Sally knows better than to argue. Shutting her mouth (which was no doubt about to deliver another insipid insult) with an audible snap, she walks quickly from the room.

He and Lestrade are left alone.

"How are you doing, then? Alright?" The DI has a vaguely uncomfortable expression on his face as he asks that immediately sets Sherlock on guard.

Lestrade did an admirable job remaining professional and somewhat emotionally detached while performing his duty, but he was--in other respects--entirely simple to read. Though his treatment of Sherlock had not changed in recent weeks (beyond the surprisingly frequent calls for consultations that were not truly needed), Sherlock had often caught the man looking at him with an expression on his face that he could not pinpoint. He had been expecting a conversation of some sort to occur eventually—Lestrade being an extremely forthright individual—but he had not anticipated it occurring in such…solemn (and private) conditions.

"I'm fine," Sherlock responds, allowing some bite into his tone. "I don't know why you all persist in thinking I'm somehow fragile."

"I know you're not fragile, but you've been through a trying time recently,” Lestrade says patiently. “I want you to know that if at any point you suspect you‘re approaching your breaking point, you should come to me."

Sherlock scoffs. "I don't need a therapist, I assure you. Though if you're really worried, perhaps I should take up blogging?"

He expects a look of wry irritation for his flippant response, but Lestrade's expression doesn’t change.

"I don't want to be your therapist, Sherlock." He is clearly choosing his words carefully. "What I am is a police officer. If you come to a point where you're planning to change the status quo, I'd appreciate you letting me know. As a friend."

He wonders if Lestrade is trying to gently imply that he may be slipping back into drug-use. He thinks perhaps a reassurance is in order (these days he finds John and his role as a consultant as a very good stand-in to chemical stimulation), but at the man’s next words, he realizes that he completely misread the reason for Lestrade arranging this tête-à-tête.

“I know you don’t handle boredom well. At all. And a…change in profession may seem appealing. I just-,” the DI pauses, seemingly at a loss, before shouldering on. “I know you don’t particularly care for people, but there are people who care for you. If you were to toss it all in for a chance to try your hand at criminal activity for a bit of excitement, I think that at some point you’d end up regretting it. Even if you don’t think you would.”

Sherlock’s blood goes abruptly cold as he realizes what Lestrade is attempting to convey.

"You think I'm going to join him. Moriarty," he says. He is appalled to note that he sounds slightly strangled, and he clears his throat to imply the waver in his voice is a product of anything other than his horrible, dawning realization. Sherlock had recounted every nuance of his conversations with Moriarty during the ‘test’ the other man had set up for him. Despite Sherlock’s (endless) protestations to the contrary, Lestrade is an astute Inspector. He would have seen the implicit recruitment (‘seduction,’ his mind corrects) just as clearly as Sherlock.

And of _course_ he would be concerned about such a scenario coming to pass. Isn’t Lestrade already all too aware of Sherlock's flirtations with self-destruction and danger? Hadn’t he been present for the darkest incarnations of Sherlock’s battles with obsession and addiction? He knows he shouldn't be surprised that Lestrade is half expecting him to take Moriarty up on his implied ‘job offer.’

But he is.

Lestrade's eyes peer at him intensely: the eyes of a DI taking apart a suspect. For all that, Sherlock can see sympathy as well. He doesn’t know which one bothers him more.

"Can you tell me it's honestly outside the realm of possibility?" Lestrade asks, voice surprisingly gentle.

Sherlock stares at him, wide-eyed and completely unable to answer.

As it turns out, he does not need to.

“Lestrade!” comes a booming, enraged voice. In what seems to be an involuntary movement, the DI immediately straightens and moves to the door, but it swings violently opens before he is able to reach it.

“Sir,” Lestrade says respectfully to the older man who enters, but it is immediately clear that the policeman--a Commander by the insignia on his uniform--will not be easily soothed. He’s a tall man with a somewhat stooped back. That along with his heated glare makes it appear that he is looming over Lestrade, despite standing several metres from him. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock glimpses three more individuals where they stand in the hallway watching the scene. One man, ruddily complected with thinning grey hair, appears to be a Commander as well; the others Inspectors.

“Detective Inspector,” the Commander says heatedly. “What is this man doing here? I believe I made it clear that he is not to set foot in the station nor assist on any active investigation for the foreseeable future, yet I understand from Commander Rucastle that he has been contracted by your department yet again.”

The man has made no acknowledgement of Sherlock, but it is obvious from the way he is pointedly refusing to look at him, that he himself is the subject of the man’s ire. It surprises Sherlock, if only because he is certain he has never met the Commander and every time he has heard that particular tone of wrath aimed in his direction, it has been distinctly personal in nature. That a complete stranger should have a passionate dislike of him is novel.

In the hallway, the second Commander shifts uncomfortably. It is clear the sentiment is not, at least, universal. Though perhaps the other man is simply embarrassed at the venue. It does feel rather like cheap theatre: complete with an unwilling audience.

“Commander Millens,” Lestrade says calmly, identifying the man. He unhurriedly looks to the men in the hall. "Commander Rucastle. Richardson, Trujillo," he acknowledges with a nod before turning back to the incensed man before him.

“Sherlock Holmes is a valuable and trusted consultant for the Met," he says. "Commander Myers has confirmed that he should continue in that capacity.” The DI’s eyes are focused somewhere over Millen’s shoulder. It is obvious to Sherlock that he does not think much of the Commander but has too much respect for the chain of command to be wilfully insubordinate.

It is also obvious that Lestrade, while irritated and perhaps even angry, is not surprised by this confrontation from the Commander.

Millens snorts in abject disbelief. “I find it hard to believe that Myers would choose to support the case of a psychopathic eccentric with a known connection to a madman bomber.”

Sherlock starts at the flagrant assertion, uncertain which part of the blatantly erroneous statement to disprove first, but Lestrade shakes his head sharply in a signal for him to remain silent. Had Sherlock not still been wrong footed by his conversation with the DI, he would not have complied. But he is suddenly uncertain where he stands with Lestrade, and the recognition that he has apparently missed something of tremendous importance in regards his relation with the DI and the rest of the Met keeps him silent.

“No, Sir,” Lestrade says. “He would not support the case of a psychopathic eccentric, but he does support the case of Mr Holmes here.”

“This man is dangerous! Property has been destroyed, lives have been lost, and the city has been threatened, because of _him_. Do I need to remind you of the events of last month?”

“No, Sir,” Lestrade replies coolly. “I remember them perfectly, being a member of the department that actively dealt with them.”

Millens flushes, the colour travelling to the very top of his scalp and visible through his thinning, grey hair. “Watch yourself, Detective Inspector. I have five years on Myers. It is my recommendation that carries weight with the Commissioner.”

“Commander Myers oversees the policing of this borough, including the CID, which is the only department for which Mr Holmes has consulted. Until I hear otherwise, I will abide by his decision. Sir.”

For a moment Sherlock thinks that the Commander will strike Lestrade, so completely furious does he appear, but he masters himself and steps back.

“Very well, Lestrade,” he says with rigid formality. “You can expect that I shall bring this incident to the attention of the Commissioner, as well as your obvious connection to the subject in question. Were I you, I would strongly consider another profession. Good evening.”

The Commander pivots smartly on his heel and departs with long, swift strides. The other uniformed men follow him, though one of the Inspectors pauses a moment to convey commiseration and apology through his expression. It is unclear if he intends it in response to the man’s words against Sherlock or his ill treatment of Lestrade, though Sherlock would wager on the latter.

When they are out of sight Lestrade curses violently and abruptly, which is, perhaps, even more startling than the Commanders' sudden appearance.

“You should go,” he mutters to Sherlock, moving to the door. “I need to talk to Myers."

“Lestrade,” he begins, feeling uncharacteristically hesitant. What exactly is there to be said? Though the Commander’s delivery had been offensive and the greater part of his facts inaccurate, a small voice inside of Sherlock does not truly disagree with his assessment.

And he fears that Lestrade does not either, given the DI’s statements just before Millens’ entrance.

Sherlock was caught entirely unawares by what was said and he requires time to reflect on Lestrade’s potential reasoning and motivations. Given his confusion, Sherlock does not know how he will react at this moment if he receives confirmation that Lestrade _does_ in actuality believe him to be dangerous.

Or that his services as a consultant are no longer worth the risk his presence creates.

“Go, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, not looking at him as he walks out of the room. “Go home.”

Once he is left alone, it seems the only course of action to follow.

***

By the time he makes it back to Baker Street, it is extremely late, and the streets are quiet and dark. The bulb at the entrance to 221 burned out a few days previously, and he is entirely in shadow as he finds the lock and inserts his key through sense memory alone.

It feels restful to be masked in darkness, though he knows that this reaction is not a customary one and that he should not, perhaps, feel so comforted. But in truth he finds it almost peaceful. If no one can see him--and he counts himself in this--then there are no expectations over what he could or should do.

It is exhausting, seeing himself through other's eyes. And a dark part of him is dully surprised that he is even capable. In his childhood, he had been taken (quietly and somewhat shamefully) to several therapy sessions at the request of his tutors. The psychotherapist--a rotund man with an archaic set of facial hair--had been grave when imparting his diagnosis to Sherlock’s mother. Antisocial personality disorder: an inability to hold the rights and emotions of others in regard.

Manipulation of others without remorse.

Superficial and shallow emotions.

His parents' treatment of him had always been rather reserved: his mother was often ill, and his father lived so entirely in his head, that to interact frequently with the outside world took great effort. This did not change after Sherlock’s second and final meeting with the specialist and his diagnosis as a high functioning sociopath. If anything, the therapist’s judgment relieved his parents of a burden they had only peripherally been aware of: if their son was _unable_ to relate to others on an emotional level, if that piece of him was in fact dysfunctional, their inability to connect with him was in no way due to a failing on their part.

They had treated Sherlock kindly if distantly, and though they were not particularly wealthy, he had not wanted for any material item he requested. If anything, his intellectual pursuits had been actively encouraged by his parents, who seemed to believe that if he would never be capable of customary social interactions, he should focus instead on where his strengths did lie. No subject had been too esoteric for them to agree immediately to his requests for books or components necessary for experimentation.

They had never appeared to fear him, for which Sherlock was grateful, but he had always felt they were relieved when he went away for school. He did not return for holidays, and they never insisted that he did so.

His childhood was what it was, and upon review, he did not consider it to be lacking in any way. If he were occasionally bitter about any of his memories, it was only because Mycroft--seven years his senior--was as completely inept at the standard social niceties as Sherlock. Yet due to his near constant seclusion in the library and better ability to politely excuse himself during those moments of conversation where Sherlock would be more apt to respond caustically, he was never the subject of a psychological 'assessment' and therefore did not bear a label.

In university, after his parents' deaths, Sherlock had gone through a phase of rebellion in a sense against the person he was thought to be (though if he were honest with himself, he had to admit that he was rebelling more against Mycroft's prodigious academic shadow than anything). He had forgone studying, instead joining his fellow students in their pursuit of alcohol, sex, and pretentious conversation. He had even taken along a date to one of the first fresher parties: a nursing student named Janice.

It had been awkward and uncomfortable, and he had hated every moment of it. When the night had ended with Janice slapping him harshly and calling him a 'bloody psycho’ to the amusement of the crowd, he had immediately returned to the library and proceeded directly to the psychology section.

What he had found had both relieved and disappointed him. Sherlock had always, in the far reaches of his mind, thought (hoped) that the initial diagnosis from his childhood was incorrect. Was, if anything, an overly simplistic analysis applied to a complex and unique personality.

But he had found--sitting cross legged on the floor of the library stacks cradling a book on abnormal psychology with the smell of dust pervasive in the still air--that the descriptors had fit him almost perfectly. Didn't he have an extreme aversion to boredom? An inadequate control of his temper? He had tried to interact in the method considered acceptable for young men his age, and he had indisputably failed.

Sherlock had put the texts back, returned to his studies, and never again questioned the application of the term 'sociopath' to himself. If interpersonal relationships were all but unheard of in his life, it was no more than he had come to expect, and--given the inadequacies inherent in his personality--it was almost certainly for the best.

(Of course, now there is John, who is at the very least an aberration in Sherlock's experience. On what else he may be, Sherlock is still unresolved.)

He is knocked literally out of his reverie by Mrs Hudson abruptly pushing the door open. It is only his quick reflexes and long legs that save him from being thrown from the doorstep.

"Oh there you are, dear," she says, smiling at him beatifically. "We were wondering when you'd finally get home. You really can't keep such late hours, Sherlock. It's not fair to Dr Watson. And now with a pet waiting for you as well! It’s simp--, Are you alright, dear?"

Her chatter coupled with the warm light now pouring over the threshold is in such stark contrast to the dark quiet he had been standing in, that--as during his conversation with Lestrade--for a moment he feels entirely out of step.

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson," he says after a moment, once his eyes have adjusted to the sudden brightness.

She doesn't look convinced in the slightest, peering at him in obvious concern.

"You've been pale, Sherlock. And I know you're not eating, not that you ever eat enough, mind. You should find someone to talk to. Get some things off your chest."

"There's nothing on my chest," he returns evenly. "So I doubt such a conversation would be useful." He tries to walk past her, but--for such a diminutive woman--she manages to block the entire doorway.

"I mean talk about what happened at the pool, dear," she says, still smiling that fixed, dotty smile at him.

Sherlock has never expected to hear the events referenced in this setting, and for a moment his breath catches. "How do you know about that?" he asks, hearing suspicion colour his words.

Mrs Hudson is unaffected by his tone as she goes on cheerfully. "It was on the news, of course. I saw it on three times in one night: that vicious man took Dr Watson hostage and lured you to him. Oh, you were so brave for going Sherlock, but there's no shame in being afraid later, now that you're both safe. It doesn't make you any less of a man."

He edges past her at last and flees up the stairs.

"I'm certain Dr Watson would agree with me," she calls up after him.

Sherlock escapes into the flat and closes the door more firmly behind him than is the norm. John looks up from where he is sat on the floor against the sofa rubbing the belly of the interloper while the dog rolls ridiculously over the rug.

"Should I be alarmed?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's behaviour.

"Not particularly," he replies, placing Mrs Hudson's comments firmly out of his mind.

"Good," John stands and stretches slowly. "Because now that you're home, I'm off to bed."

The realization that John had waited up for him leaves an uncomfortable tingle in his chest. "Your newfound tendency to mother me is completely unnecessary, as well as unsettling," he lies.

"Hmm, if you say so," John ignores him, making his way to the stairs with the dog trotting happily in his wake. He pauses on the way and turns back to Sherlock.

"By the way, there was a message for you in the post about a new case." John’s mouth twitches. "A boy has lost his dog and is hoping you'll be able to locate it."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock replies flatly, not as amused as his flatmate appears to be.

"I don't know," John says smiling. "I thought it was sweet, actually. Maybe you should respond and lend him your expertise."

He raises an eyebrow. "I think not. If he's unable to find the dog on his own, it is my understanding that there are hundreds in London awaiting adoption." He shifts his gaze pointedly to where the animal is sniffing the floor with enthusiasm.

John just grins at him before continuing on his way. "Don't stay up too late," he calls as he walks up the steps, dog on his heels.

Sherlock doesn't bother to respond. Perhaps atypically, he finds that he does not want to lie. With Lestrade's and Commander Millens's words now echoing in his mind along with his subconscious' memories and disturbing interpretations of the events at the pool, he knows he will get no sleep that night.

He doesn't.


	4. Chapter 4

Lambeth in the morning is an altogether different animal than Lambeth at night, Sherlock muses as he and John wait near the head of an alley adjacent an electronics shop. The people that he sees moving about on the street have an air of efficiency--of tasks being accomplished--as they go about their business. It is a weekday, and the majority of the residents who are employed have clocked in for the day. He does not anticipate this being a problem: the contacts that he believes will be most useful in this situation do not work typical office hours.

"So who are we seeing today?" John asks with a yawn. He has been blinking sleepily since being roused from his bedroom and bustled into a cab. It is too endearing for Sherlock to look at him directly for more than approximately thirty seconds at a time.

"I know him as Wiggins, though I doubt that's his given name," Sherlock answers. "He doesn't live in this neighbourhood, but he can be found here fairly often. He has access to a large network of informants, which makes him valuable for our purposes." He is being unusually informative, he knows, which he attributes to the three coffees he had consumed since the sun had risen to combat the lethargy lack of sleep is causing him. His body feels jittery with the caffeine, but his mind is clear, and at the moment, that is the more important of the two.

It takes him a moment to realize that John has not responded to him, and he looks to his flatmate to see that his attention caught instead by something behind Sherlock. His face is drawn in puzzlement.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, twisting to look over his own shoulder.

“It’s nothing,” John assures him. “It’s just that shop sign: it’s completely incomprehensible. I have no idea how they hope to sell to anyone with that. What is it even advertising? Crisps?”

“C1. Maint Sc. Unk Pa” the sign merrily proclaims. Sherlock glances at it briefly before dismissing it and turning back to his flat mate, who is still frowning up at the board, forehead creased in thought as his lips attempt to sound out the syllables. Sherlock finds the expression ridiculously pleasing.

“Inability to focus is a sign of impending senility,” Sherlock observes casually, belying a heart that is beating more quickly than the norm.

“Oh shut up,” John retorts, sounding amused. “And what do you call it when you segue between five different topics in the space of two minutes?”

“Genius.”

John is still laughing when their informant makes his appearance.

"Psst, guvnor, three bob and a tanner on ya?” comes a young, sly voice. John's eyebrows rise in incredulity, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Shut up, Wiggins," he says to the skinny youth that emerges from the alley. The boy--who looks no older than twelve, though Sherlock would guess he is closer to fourteen--grins at him with sharp, somewhat discoloured teeth.

"Just having a bit of fun," Wiggins says, giving John a long, suspicious look.

"This is my associate," Sherlock explains, declining to give John's name. Wiggins has a profitable business selling stolen identities, and he doesn't want to give the boy any temptation.

Wiggins accepts the non-answer to his non-question and looks at Sherlock with calculation in his eye. "What do you have for me, then?"

"I have fifty pounds for you if you're able to provide me with the location of a young woman."

"Will any young woman do, or do you have one particular in mind? I know lots of good ones up the river a bit, if you don’t mind a trip to a chemist afterward," Wiggins says with a grin.

John looks torn between amusement and disapproval, but Sherlock--well used to Wiggin's theatrics--merely pretends not to have heard.

He pulls the photograph of Alice Toller that he obtained from Lestrade out of his pocket and presents it to the boy. "This is the girl I'm looking for. Her name is Alice Toller. She may be hiding somewhere in Lambeth, possibly in the company of a young man with a beard."

Wiggins squints at it, looking puzzled. "Alice Toller, you say?"

"Yes, that's her name," John jumps in. "Do you know her?"

"No, never heard of her; but this bird looks like Violet Hunter. I'd swear this was her sister, if I didn't know Violet didn't have one. Same hair, mostly. That weird goldy red colour, though Vi’s is longer."

"You're certain they're not connected in some way?" Sherlock asks him, mind processing this new, unexpected information.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Wiggins replies. "I've spent a lot of time around Vi, and I've never seen this Alice girl."

"Still, there may be some relation," Sherlock says, thinking aloud. "Where can we find Violet?"

Wiggins' grin is devious as he holds out his hand, and with a sigh, Sherlock pushes a twenty pound note into his palm that the boy pockets immediately.

"Well, guv’," he says mockingly. "As luck would have it, Violet went underground two days ago, and no one has seen hide nor hair of her."

"That is lucky," Sherlock agrees, a hypothesis beginning to form around the disparate facts of the case. "Can you find her?"

Wiggins scoffs. "I can find anyone if you give me enough time. And pay. But in this case, I must decline. Vi is a friend. I don’t find friends that don’t want to be found."

Sherlock attempts to sway him. "I will pay you fifty pounds for the location of Violet Hunter and another fifty if you find Alice Toller."

“No deal.”

Sherlock gives him a menacing look. “I could always inform the police of your involvement with the Chelsea burglaries.”

Wiggins grins. “And I could do the same, seeing as you could be considered an accomplice for keeping silent this long. I’m sure the bobbies would love to hear about it.”

"Cheeky brat," John says quietly.

"Fine,” Sherlock grouses. “Fifty for the location of Alice Toller and another twenty if you decline to warn Violet Hunter that we’re looking for her.”

“Deal,” Wiggins says triumphantly.

They decline to shake on it (Wiggins' hygiene leads a great deal to be desired, and neither one of them is particularly trusting), and without another word the boy disappears back down the alley. They watch him go.

"He has my mobile number," Sherlock explains to John's questioning look. "He'll call when he finds something." Then, because he _knows_ John and can guess where the man’s thoughts are currently: “He’s enrolled in a social programme for youths and stays in one of their residential and training centres. He’s not as badly off as his appearance would imply.”

"Right," John says looking relieved before he gives his now empty coffee cup a bereft glance.

"I believe it would be efficient to check in with Marie while we're in Lambeth," Sherlock says. Sufficient time has not yet passed for Marie to have found anything on Alice Toller's location, but she has coffee for sale in her shop. And John had loved her apple pie.

"So long as it's efficient," John says, beaming at him.

**

After a quick lunch (John eating pasta and Sherlock imbibing tea: his stomach is roiling from the coffee, and he finds he has little appetite regardless), they return to the station in anticipation of the initial forensics report for the flat being available. Sherlock has not received a call from Lestrade, and he finds himself feeling almost hesitant as he walks onto the main floor. The realization that he is approaching _tentative_ in his actions compels him to raise his head and walk confidently.

As such, he nearly collides with Commander Millens, who is walking just as rapidly toward the exit.

The man steps back from him abruptly, lip curled as he recognizes Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes,” he observes coolly. “I wish I could say I was surprised to see you here, but--given the leadership and quality of this Command--I am not. If anything, your presence among these officers is fitting. Good day.”

He pushes past Sherlock and a bemused John and is swiftly gone from sight.

“Please excuse him,” says a young officer that Sherlock had not immediately noticed behind the Commander. He’s a bit shorter than average (comparable to John, really) but very fit with an attractive, fine-boned face. Trujillo or Richardson, he recalls from Lestrade's greeting. The second Inspector from the night before (slender and well-tanned with an unfortunate nose and discerning eyes) stands at his side.

“And why should I do that?” Sherlock asks the first man, who on second glance is not as young as Sherlock had thought: perhaps in his mid-thirties with thick dark hair and unlined skin.

The officer smiles at him ingratiatingly. “Commander Rucastle from Serious and Organized Crimes is organizing an operation to weaken London’s illegal drug trade. The powers that be have decided to more than triple the manpower for the operation, so Commander Millens was reassigned at the last minute to assist. It’s been quite the undertaking, and the stress of the responsibility can be difficult to shoulder. Or so I’ve heard.”

The man’s amiable smile does nothing to endear Millens to Sherlock, though to be fair, the last man who had smiled at him so charmingly had strapped his flatmate into a bomber’s vest. It is possible the association may be colouring his reaction.

“I’m Inspector Trujillo,” the man continues, holding his hand out for Sherlock to shake. “And this is Richardson.”

Sherlock doesn’t take the proffered handshake, so John steps forward in his stead. “I’m John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We’re working a case for CID.”

Richardson laughs. It is somewhat nasal and unpleasant, but it appears to be prompted by genuine good humour. “Oh, we all know who you are. You’re famous.”

“I’d use the word ‘infamous’ myself,” says Sally as she joins them from her desk, where she must have been eavesdropping. Her smile to Trujillo is as warm as her glance to Sherlock is cold, though the man’s return smile is no more intense than the one he had bestowed on John (and a fair bit less than the one he had given Sherlock).

“Hey, Sally,” Richardson greets her cheerfully, receiving a perfunctory nod in return.

“Sherlock here is like a bad penny,” she continues, placing a mocking emphasis her rare use of his first name. “Covered in Semtex. You can’t throw him in the bin due to fear for public safety.”

“He certainly is memorable,” Trujillo says, smiling brightly once again in Sherlock’s direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Sally’s face darken.

“Traumatic, you mean,” Sally mutters mulishly. She leaves a moment later to answer the hail of another officer who has entered the main floor. Richardson watches her go, and Sherlock wonders if her ill-advised affair with Anderson were finally at an end. At the crime scene, the forensics tech had stood much further from her than was his norm, and she had appeared to be in especially bad humour ever since.

“It really is an honour to meet you, Mr Holmes,” Trujillo says, eyes not having wavered from the detective in front of him. “Despite never working in our Command, your reputation for brilliance precedes you.”

“Yes, well, it does have a tendency to do that. But if you don‘t mind, we need to get on,” John interjects, pulling Sherlock past the Inspector. It is impolite, and therefore extremely out of character for his flatmate, but at that moment Sherlock catches sight of Sally’s hands, and his puzzlement is forgotten.

She is holding what he deduces at once is the forensics report. And she is smiling.

Detaching himself from John, he moves toward her on long strides.

“What have you found?” he demands.

“Traces of heroin in those muddy footprints you thought we didn’t see. And confirmation that those same footprints belong to the man on the tape,” she replies with a smirk. “Looks like your innocent bystander isn’t so innocent after all.”

“I never said he was a bystander,” Sherlock retorts, reaching for the report. She pulls it out of his reach. “Nor that he was innocent. What I said was that he was innocent of the murder.”

“We have a dead body, a missing girl, and drugs. I don’t know what you expect happened in that flat, but I can guarantee you that it’s not as complex as you seem bent on making it.”

“I’m not _making_ it be anything other than what it is. And what it is at the moment is a crime you are investigating completely ineptly! Where is Lestrade? At least _he_ is occasionally capable of rational thought.”

“He’s not in. Commander Millens didn’t look too happy to see you,” Sally says in a surprising non-sequitur. Sherlock tenses. His reaction is rooted in his memory of Lestrade’s words rather than Millens’, but he tenses nonetheless, and she sees it. Her eyes glitter.

“He and Commander Rucastle were here talking to Commander Myers about you. Trying to convince him to drop you as a consultant. They said that it’s only a matter of time before Moriarty comes after you again. Or you go to him, though if you ask me, it’s the latter that’s more likely.”

Her face is a study in conviction rather than maliciousness, and it is this more than her words that kindles something rumbling and unpleasant inside of him. She is utterly certain that she has pegged his character.

"I'm surprised you're still here, honestly," she continues. “I'd have thought you two would be very happy together.”

In an instant, Sherlock is fiercely, unexpectedly furious at her. Usually her teasing and jibes are easily overlooked, prompted as they are by obvious feelings of inferiority in the face of his far superior methods of investigation and deduction.

But now he feels his jaw clenching and his fingers curling into fists, quite without his express authorization. It occurs to him that his rage is unsubstantiated and out of proportion, but it is a distant thought and does nothing to calm a heart that is abruptly pounding frantically.

She smirks at him, aware that she's scored a hit.

"Like goes to like and all," she says, enunciating each word clearly. "You freaks should stick together; preferably somewhere far, far away from the rest of us, so we don't have to deal with your shite."

For a wild, heated moment, Sherlock imagines a reality where he abandons whatever obligations there are that keep him bound in London as a consulting detective. It would serve her right if he _did_ join Moriarty in his endeavours. Between the two of them, they would lead any and all law enforcement officials unfortunate enough to cross their path on a merry, ultimately futile chase. He has no doubt that together they would be an untouchable force poised atop a sprawling criminal empire: their power and influence unmatched. Corporations, governments, lords or criminals; it wouldn‘t matter. All standing against them would disintegrate utterly under their combined brilliance.

A part of him purrs with dark satisfaction at the image, and the sudden realization that he is actually considering the scenario immediately serves to cool his anger, leaving only a sick feeling of mild nausea in its wake.

Sally is looking at him strangely, and he can’t even imagine what his expression is revealing. He reaches for an appropriate response to her jibe, but his normally composed and ordered mind is seething with unaccustomed sensations, and he is unable to call up a single word.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson was correct when she suggested that he hadn't come to terms with what had occurred at the pool.

"Well, if you'll excuse us, then." John suddenly intervenes by putting his hand on Sherlock's arm and pulling him toward the door, "We _freaks_ will be off. We'll be sure to call when we find a vital clue that you lot missed."

Sally blinks as John leads Sherlock away, clearly shocked at the intervention. Sherlock is fairly surprised as well, but he ruthlessly suppresses the feeling, along with the unsettlingly compelling images of the life that Moriarty offers and his reaction to it. He doesn’t have time to think on it, and it isn’t as though turning it around and around in his head will change the situation.

"Just ignore her, Sherlock," John says to him lowly as they navigate the police station. "She's frustrated and taking it out on you. As always."

"I didn't need a rescue," Sherlock replies, somewhat testily. It dawns on him that he’s being _handled_.

John puts his hands up in mock surrender, a mild smile on his face. "Whatever you say," he replies, clearly unaffected by Sherlock’s irritation. "Shall we catch a cab back to Lambeth? Or did you have some other lead you were planning on surprising us all with later? It might make sense for us to look into it now. Together. More efficient and all."

Against his will, Sherlock feels his lips curl up in a smile, the remnants of the unanticipated torrent of emotion settling in the face of John’s calm presence.

He pretends to scowl at his flatmate while simultaneously throwing his arm around his shoulder and pulling him out the door of the station.

"I always work with great efficiency," he says with gravity. "As for our next avenue of inquiry: I believe we may have another opportunity to sample Marie’s wares."

John smiles, though whether at the possibility of another lead in the investigation or more baked goods, Sherlock cannot tell. “She’s called then?”

“She has,” he confirms. “And she says she knows how we may locate and question Violet Hunter. Though she insisted on telling me the information in person rather than over the phone. Irritatingly inefficient woman.”

“She probably wants to fatten you up a bit,” John says straight-faced. “I can see how someone who didn’t know you well would be compelled to mother you.”

He glares, but judging by the mild look he receives in return, it is less than effective.

**

In the end, Marie’s information on the whereabouts of Violet Hunter is more of a tip than an actual and specific intelligence. Still, Sherlock recognizes the time and effort she has saved him with her intervention. It is not an avenue that would have occurred immediately to him, but in hindsight, it is devastatingly simple. It is a strategy that would have occurred immediately to any mother.

There is a small crowd in front of the Churchill Gardens Primary School when the cab pulls up, but due to the unusual auburn colour of her hair, Violet Hunter is immediately obvious. She is clad in a thin pink sweatshirt that clashes jarringly with her hair as she leans against an old, rather worn Citroen. Her eyes--a striking green--are fixed on the still closed gates of the school.

"Miss Hunter?" Sherlock questions as they approach her, attempting to make his voice as non-threatening as possible. She starts regardless before hugging her arms to her body and raising her chin belligerently.

"Who wants to know?" she asks. Her voice is confident, but her eyes dart anxiously back to the school in an obvious tell, and John quickly attempts to sooth her.

"We're not here to hurt you," he says reassuringly. "Or your daughter. We work for the Met."

It is the wrong thing to say entirely, and her eyes go flat, though at least they are no longer fearful. "Oh yeah?" she says in a bored tone. "Well, piss off. I've done nothing you need to be harassing me for."

"We consult for Homicide rather than Vice" Sherlock says dryly. "We're here about the disappearance of one young lady and the murder of another."

Violet looks completely alarmed. "I have nothing to do with any of that," she says. "What do you want to talk to me for? Did someone put you onto me for something?"

"Nothing like that," John assures her. "Look, is there somewhere we could talk privately?"

She snorts. "Yeah, like I'm going anywhere alone with you two. I haven't done anything wrong, so you'd best leave me alone. I don't know anything about any murder."

John looks entreating. "Miss Hunter--"

Sherlock pulls up the image of Alice Toller on his mobile and shows it to her. "This is the missing girl, Alice Toller. In the course of our investigation, we were told that you two bear a striking resemblance to one another, _and_ that you had gone to ground shortly after her disappearance."

Violet looks closely at the image, face intrigued for a moment before she pulls back and looks again to the school. "So? It's a coincidence is all. Lots of people look alike."

"There are no such things as coincidences," Sherlock says with certainty. “Not in murder investigations.”

Violet bites her lip, looking undecided, and John again tries to appeal to her (something in which he excels).

“Miss Hunter, please. A girl is dead, and another is running for her life. If there’s anything you can tell us that will help us, you must do it. It may end up being the information we need to save her.”

“We can pay you,” Sherlock says, also in an attempt to convince her. “Whatever your typical rate is, of course.”

A look akin to disgust crosses her face, and John glares at him disapprovingly, though he’s uncertain what about his statement could possibly have offended her.

The school doors at last fling open, and a group of children run out in a chaotic flow. One small girl, blonde curls bouncing over her shoulders, flings herself at Violet’s legs. The woman’s face doesn’t soften, but her shoulders relax slightly from where she had been tensing them.

“I do know _something_ ,” she amends after a moment, eyes still on her daughter. “I don’t see how it could possibly help you, but after I tell you, that‘ll be your problem, won‘t it?”

“How about we go to that café there,” John says, pointing across the street to a small place incongruously named The Hungry Dolphin, “and you can tell us what happened two nights ago over coffee and pie.”

Violet is clearly wavering, and John continues.

“His treat.” He points to Sherlock, who blinks in surprise and protest.

Violet grins. “You have yourself a deal.”

**

Despite John’s offer (of Sherlock’s funds) of coffee, Violet orders tea. She wraps her hands around the teacup as though to warm them as she recounts the happenings from two nights before.

“A man called the house and asked for me by name. Said he had a job for me. An escort, during the day.”

“Is that a typical sort of job?” Sherlock asks, armed with another cup of coffee (dark and highly sugared). He had declined to sample the pie, though John appears to be enjoying it.

She shrugs. “Typical enough. Usually though, if we go on an escort out in public, we end up finishing the date one-on-one.” She does not blush at the allusion to her profession, appearing completely comfortable about discussing it. John glances with vague concern at her daughter sitting beside her, but the child appears completely focused on devouring a large mug of hot chocolate and takes no notice.

“That wasn’t what occurred in this case?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “This customer only wanted a public escort.”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?”

“A bit strange, yeah, but a lot of the men who call are a bit strange to begin with. As long as their money is good and they follow our rules, we don’t turn them away because of it.”

“Where did he ask you to meet?” Sherlock asks.

“At St. James’s Park at five minutes to nine.”

“At night?”

“No, in the morning.”

“Did he give you any other instruction?”

Her hand goes seemingly automatically to her bobbed hair. “He asked me to cut my hair.”

“Your hair?” John echoes, looking perplexed. “Surely that’s not a normal request.”

“Not at all,” she replies, shrugging, “but it’s just hair. It’ll grow back. He said he prefers girls with short hair and asked me to cut it off at my chin.”

“What sort of man was your client?” Sherlock continues, filing this away. Despite John’s reaction, the information is not unexpected. On the contrary, it fits in perfectly with the theory he has been forming about the crime.

Violet hesitates for a moment. “I never met him, I don’t think. When I got to the park, the same man called my mobile back and told me to move to a bench and sit next to the man sitting there.”

“You’re certain the man on the bench was a different man than the one who called you?”

“Yes. When I found the man on the bench, I was still on the phone, but he wasn’t. It was definitely two different men.”

“What was this man on the bench like?” Violet hesitates a moment before answering, biting her lower lip in what is clearly a nervous habit, going by their somewhat raw state.

“Hard,” she says at last. “He was dressed well, but I could tell that he wasn’t a nice man. It was in the way he looked at me: like I wasn’t a person at all. Just scenery.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Just a regular bloke,” she says shrugging. “Not too tall. Big shoulders with a bit extra around his middle. Middle-aged.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock asks raising an incredulous eyebrow. John elbows him discreetly before taking over the questioning.

“What colour was his hair?”

“Black. A bit thin on top. He kept it short,” she says, brow creased in thought.

“How about his eyes?”

“Brown,” she says with certainty. “Cold brown eyes.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?” John asks hopefully. “Anything at all? Even the slightest detail may be helpful.”

Violet again gnaws her lower lip while she thinks, her painted nails tapping a staccato rhythm on her teacup.

“He had a tattoo,” she says at last. “On his wrist. I could see it under his jacket.”

“What was it?”

“A yellow star, I think. On a red background.”

“You’re certain?” Sherlock asks.

“As well as I can be. I only saw it for a moment. I tried to ask him about it to start a conversation, since we were just sitting there in silence, but he pulled his sleeve down.”

“How did he speak? Did he have any sort of accent you could discern?”

“I can’t say. He didn‘t say anything. He hardly even looked at me. Just faced straight ahead like a mannequin.”

“He never spoke to you?”

“No. Only the man on the mobile. His voice was normal, if you wanted to know.”

“Normal?” Sherlock asks, allowing his tone to make the utter uselessness of the adjective apparent.

“He _sounded_ like a Londoner,” Violet says, glaring at him. “Like anybody.”

“What exactly did he tell you to do?”

“Just to sit next to the man on the bench.”

“Nothing else?” Sherlock presses.

“ _No_ ,” she replies, looking annoyed. “He told me to sit and hung up, so I did. I tried to talk to the other bloke a couple of times, but he wouldn’t have it, so I gave up.”

“How long were you there?”

“Thirty minutes give or take,” she says. “Felt longer, but by the time he called back and told me to go, it was only a few minutes after nine thirty.”

“The man on the mobile?”

“Yes.” She pauses. “Are you always this slow? I thought you consulted for the Met.”

“We’re just being thorough,” John says, ineffectively hiding his smile behind his coffee.

“It wouldn’t be necessary if you were precise to begin with,” Sherlock adds, narrowing his eyes at her. John tries to elbow him again, but he catches it this time, shifting his glare from Violet to his flatmate. John just smiles at him.

“What happened next?” John asks Violet.

“I left, of course. I didn’t want to stick around any longer than I had to. I went straight home and saw that the money had been deposited in my account like the man said it would be.”

“How much?” Sherlock asks.

“Two hundred quid.”

“Quite the payment for a half hour of work,” he observes.

She hesitates for a moment. “I’m not thick, despite what you may think. I knew something wasn’t right, but I can’t afford to turn down a job that pays so well.” She doesn’t look at her daughter, now drawing vigorously on a napkin with a pen from her mother’s handbag, but the implication is obvious.

“As soon as I got home, I packed enough things for a few days and went to stay with a friend.”

“You think that’s enough?” John asks, his (needless) innate concern for women in peril coming through.

Violet shrugs and takes another sip of her tea as she looks out the window. “Yeah, they know they don’t need to bother with me.”

When she faces them again, the resignation in her eyes is easily perceptible. “What can I do to them anyway? Go to the police and tell them some bloke paid me to cut my hair? They’re not too keen on women in my line of work to begin with.” Her voice is matter of fact without even a tinge of bitterness at her circumstances.

“We can protect you,” John insists. This time it is Sherlock doing the elbowing, which the doctor ignores in favour of staring earnestly at the woman across from them.

Her face doesn’t change. “Thanks for that, but I’d rather look after myself.”

“What about your daughter?” John asks. “You don’t want her in danger.”

“I’ll look after her too.” She at last looks at her watch—restless--and moves to gather up her daughter’s belongings. “We need to go. My mates will be wondering where I am.”

“These are dangerous men you’re dealing with,” John says. “You need to take this seriously.”

Violet kneels to do up her daughter’s pale pink coat, mouth twisting with dry amusement. “I’ll let you in on a secret: there’s no point taking anything seriously.” When she looks up, it’s at Sherlock rather than at John, and he feels pierced by her pale green eyes. “Life’s all a bloody joke anyway, so why bother?”

They follow her to the door, John still trying to convince her to accept some sort of protection.

“Please, take my card,” he says, pressing it into her hand. “If you feel that you’re in any danger, call. It doesn’t matter what time.”

She pockets the card without looking at it. “You’re a good man, but if you come near my daughter again, I’ll gut you. Thanks for the tea.”

She pushes the door open and leaves quickly, the cheerful tinkling bell heralding her exit.

“Home then?” John sighs, as they watch Violet and her daughter climb into their car, their matching pink outerwear markedly bright against the grey weather. He looks remarkably melancholy, considering he only met the woman twenty minutes before.

Sherlock’s mind is still abuzz with theories and observations, and the idea of returning to the flat to sit quietly with only his thoughts for company is intolerable.

“Back to Lambeth,” he says instead. “There is a possibility that Wiggins or Marie may have found something on the whereabouts of Alice Toller.”

John looks doubtful. “Wouldn’t they have rung your mobile?”

They would have. “Not necessarily,” Sherlock replies. “And there are other avenues that we could pursue that may prove beneficial.”

John shrugs. “If you say so. What did you make of all of that? Any ideas?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies without elaborating. “Get us a cab,” he says shortly as he pulls out his mobile to research.

He is concentrating too strongly on the rapidly updating screen to confirm that John is following his instructions, but he never loses sense of his flatmate’s presence. It is as though a section of his mind has devoted itself entirely to the awareness and observation of John.

He is uncertain if he is concerned about this development and the potential loss of focus it represents. Sherlock had learned early in his life that people do not like to have the entirety of his attention. They swiftly become uncomfortable when the full extent of his dysfunctional personality becomes evident, and he had quickly realized that it was better for all involved that he not encourage such connections.

Clearly his fascination with John has led him to form a deeper, one-sided relationship than he had intended. He knows it is something that must be dealt with quickly, before John realizes how much of Sherlock’s attention he truly has.

And then inevitably leaves because of it.

**

They find no sign of Alice Toller as they walk the neighbourhood. Not that Sherlock had truly expected to. She and her confederate had clearly hidden themselves with remarkable skill to have remained so entirely undetected.

John is noticeably tiring as they walk. His limp, though appearing with less frequency, still plagues him intermittently. He puts on a brave front, but the detective can see the lines of pain and fatigue wear more deeply into his face as the evening turns to night. He had been at first upbeat and abnormally chatty in a no doubt misguided and ultimately futile effort to keep Sherlock’s mind from his confrontations earlier that day:

“C1. Sc. Cb? No plus Pa,” John had said entirely straight-faced as they passed the shop with the incomprehensible advertisement for the third time.

“Do shut up,” Sherlock retorted.

However, after several hours, John quiets and follows Sherlock’s meandering path silently until at last he stops entirely.

“Okay, that’s enough for tonight,” John says firmly. “We’ve been at it for hours, and we need to be back at the flat before too long to take care of the dog. Mrs Hudson can’t be expected to feed him every day.”

Sherlock makes a noise of annoyance. It is cold, and despite their walking, a chill has seeped into him. This, in conjunction with the frustration of Alice Toller’s complete disappearance, makes him even less predisposed than usual to John’s irritating sense of duty. “Are you really going to let that animal dictate your schedule?”

“I let you dictate it, don’t I? To a point anyway,” John replies mildly. “And at least you can take care of yourself. He can’t. We have a responsibility to look after him.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re so fond of him. I was wondering what compelled you to volunteer to house an animal of insignificant consequence, but now it’s obvious.”

“What do you mean by that?” A slightly dangerous note enters John’s tone.

“I _mean_ that you are attracted to situations where you can play the hero: medicine, the army, even me to an extent. You need to be needed, and for some reason you think that I am an outlet for this compulsion. Though why you felt it better to imprint on me rather than your alcoholic sister is something I have not yet managed to pinpoint.”

Sherlock’s voice is dispassionate and intended to wound. He is inherently selfish, but he knows himself well. The only outcome more acceptable to inevitably losing John’s respect and companionship entirely is to place some distance between them now, before John realizes the true extent of Sherlock’s nature.

It is cruel, he knows, but ultimately kinder.

John is silent for a moment, hand rubbing gently at his chin as he considers the detective. Despite Sherlock’s best prediction of his reaction, he does not appear angry, only tired. “Like I said,” he at last says slowly, “that’s enough for tonight. We’re both cold and tired, and it’s time to go home.”

He moves to hail a cab, and Sherlock feels a rush of intense frustration at being placated.

“I assume this is your attempt at saving me from myself,” Sherlock says viciously. “Well done, John. So self-sacrificing, even when confronted with absolute confirmation that your interventions are neither needed nor wanted. Really, you’re quite the martyr.”

“I’m not trying to save you from anything, Sherlock,” his flatmate says as a cab pulls up to the kerb. “But I do wish you would realize that you actually are capable of saving yourself.”

He gets into the cab before Sherlock can reply, and he realizes as he climbs in after him that he doesn’t have an adequate response anyway.

They ride back to the flat in silence.

**

John is literally dragging as they return to Baker Street, his steps barely clearing the pavement as they arrive at their building. To be fair, Sherlock had awoken him unforgivably early, but it also finally occurs to him that he may not be the only one beset by nightmares.

He fears the answer (what if John's subconscious also sees Sherlock drenched in blood in the arms of their enemy?), so he does not ask.

Unlocking the door proves to be too difficult for John in his current, exhausted state, and without thinking, Sherlock reaches out to guide his hand with his own.

John’s skin is warm even through both of their gloves, and for a moment Sherlock simply soaks it in, his own fingers relaxing. He had not even realized he was cold until he suddenly wasn’t.

John stirs after a moment. "Sherlock?" he questions, no doubt wondering why the detective is basically holding his hand on their darkened doorstep. Sherlock’s cheeks flare at the thought, and he is forever grateful that John is unable to see it in the dim lighting. He does not often blush, but when he does, it is embarrassingly evident due to his pale complexion.

Sherlock clears his throat. "It is becoming increasingly obvious that you are entirely worthless when lethargic."

"Yes, well, we can't all be machines like you," John replies. Sherlock thinks it is meant in jest, but his flatmate is so tired that instead the delivery comes across flat. There is awkward silence until John conquers the lock and opens the door.

As they top the stairs, they see in the dim light of the landing that a flyer has been posted to their door.

John unlocks the door to their flat—dog bounding forward to rub at his knees—before pulling it off (gently, because he cares about such trivialities as the state of the door paint). He smiles slightly. Holding it up so that Sherlock can see the flyer, he points to the large photo of a rather idiotic looking dog showcased in the centre of the paper. "Lost!" cries the paper in thick black marker.

"Mrs Hudson must have let him in," John says. "Poor kid must really miss his dog."

Sherlock grunts. "If this is the result of the 'fame' your blog has brought me, I'd rather go back to working in complete obscurity. At least he's providing us with an opportunity to be rid of this mongrel," he says, using his foot to firmly push the dog--which is once again nosing at his shins--away.

"I doubt a boy with a missing basset hound will accept a wire haired Jack Russell in its place," John says. "So it looks like the dog will be staying a bit longer."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I fail to see what good you think that animal will do us. He is completely useless."

John looks patient but worn, the circles under his eyes dark and almost mournful in the dim light. "It's not about being useful, Sherlock. I just think it's nice to have something loyal to come home to."

Sherlock feels a jolt. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demands, more stridently than he means to.

John rubs his face. "It doesn't mean anything," he says tiredly. "Look, can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm knackered."

John is too polite to leave without actually receiving an affirmative response, and when Sherlock gives a nod--not trusting himself to speak--he heads for the stairs, the dog on his heels. The sound of his bedroom door closing is loud in their quiet flat, and the silence afterward is ringing.

Sherlock knows that at the very least a short nap is in order, should nightmares again keep him from a full night's rest, but his flatmate's words have left him far too unsettled. In truth, he finds the unspoken implications of John's statement almost terrifying, though he knows that lack of sleep and the unsettling conversations with Lestrade, Millens, and Donovan are causing him to read into John's words more than is intended.

At least, he hopes this is the case. He does not know how he would react if John confronted him as Lestrade had.

The thought of such a conversation, of the distrust that John could voice, is immediately, intensely unpleasant (horrifying, a quiet part of him corrects). As whenever he is troubled by concerns related to interactions and relationships, his by and large methodical mind awash in turmoil and uncertainty, he pushes the entire unresolved morass away and focuses on facts.

Alice Toller is proving more elusive than he had anticipated, and his contacts have as of yet been unable to find any sign of her. With the new information provided by Violet Hunter, it is evident that a more complicated conspiracy is at work than a simple abduction. Given Violet's resemblance to the missing girl and her recounting of her bizarre and unsettling 'date,' the most logical explanation is that she had unwittingly played as Alice's double. But played for whom?

Researching Alice Toller's past takes him some hours, and the street outside grows gradually quiet until the only sound is the tap of his fingers as they move in a rhythmic, regimented beat across his laptop. Some facts present themselves with minimal effort on his part:

Born to a single mother in south London who passed away from cervical cancer in 2005. An average student: she had graduated from secondary school with no particular distinction and spent one term studying meteorology at the University of Reading before discontinuing the programme and returning to London four years previously. She had then become embroiled fairly intensively with drugs and later prostitution for a period of two years, though never jailed for any length of time extending beyond a month or two. Her last involvement with the police had occurred two years ago, after which she registered with a drug and alcohol addiction support group which she was still attending (though she had been absent from the most recent session, Sherlock is unsurprised to note).

He sits back at last after confirming that the pattern he had noted immediately upon beginning his search is correct:

There is no record of Alice Toller's father.

He pursues every line of inquiry he can imagine, utilizes every database and backdoor to which he has access, but there is nothing. Such a complete wipe is not within reach of the majority of the populace, and he groans as he realizes where his investigation is taking him.

It is time to visit his brother.

**

When he arrives at the extravagantly up-market flat, Mycroft is sitting at his desk—dressed in a full suit and with umbrella near at hand--in the only room that Sherlock has ever been invited to visit: his office. Despite Sherlock being positive that Mycroft was not asleep, and that his visit is no more of an inconvenience than it ever is, his brother’s face is deeply annoyed as he stares down at his planner. He doesn’t look up when Sherlock seats himself in the ornate armchair across from him.

"It's late, Sherlock. What can I do for you?"

Sherlock doesn’t prevaricate. "I'm looking for someone. A girl named Alice Toller who I believe is being pursued by men who mean to abduct and subsequently kill her. Looking into her background, I have been unable to find any information on her father, and I believe his identity may be central to the case."

"And you believe I can help you in some capacity?" Mycroft asks evenly, eyes still on his desk.

"Alice Toller's father is most likely a man of some importance politically, and that is a realm you are capable of navigating that I cannot. At least, not in the amount of time that remains before the girl is recaptured or killed."

Mycroft at last stops his (entirely theatrical) perusal of his appointment book and looks up at Sherlock. He frowns.

"You look tired. Have you been sleeping?" Mycroft is watching him with that look he had perfected in adolescence that gives the impression he is peering down his nose. Sherlock has always found infuriating, especially given as he is taller than his brother.

"Given how well he has covered his tracks, a position of power or influence seems the most likely explanation," Sherlock says, ignoring his question.

"Or perhaps the man is deceased and has been since the girl was a child," his brother says, raising an eyebrow slowly. "You do realize that insomnia will eventually interfere with your mind’s ability to process information efficiently. You should take better care of yourself."

"My mind is working perfectly," Sherlock says through gritted teeth. "Nor is it any concern of yours."

" _You_ are my concern." For a moment, Mycroft looks as tired as Sherlock feels, the lines around his eyes deep and obvious. "Despite our antagonistic relationship, I do not want to lose you. Not to drugs, to violence, or to your own ill-advised fascinations."

As with Sally, the anger is instantaneous and intense. "I suppose that you also believe I will be throwing my hat in with him, then?" There is no need to specify who he means. “That I'll go off to pursue a bright, new career opportunity in an international criminal empire?"

Sherlock is on his feet without realizing it, and he slams his hands on his brother’s desk as he looms over him.

"Tell me that’s not what you think," Sherlock growls.

Mycroft is dispassionate. "Sherlock, this is hardly the appropriate--"

“There never an ‘appropriate’ moment to learn that you’re expected to fall. Tell me that’s not what you think is going to happen.”

Mycroft is not accustomed to being interrupted, and his eyes narrow dangerously. “You’re clearly exhaust--”

"Tell me that's not what you think!” Sherlock yells. He shocks himself with his raised tone, but his brother remains impervious, face still set in that featureless mask that he always displays in Sherlock’s presence. The same one that he had adopted during every interaction between them in childhood that Sherlock can remember. As though Sherlock were someone he needed to take special care not to provoke. As though he were _apprehensive_ of how Sherlock would react; what Sherlock would do.

It’s intolerable.

“ _Tell me_!" Where Sherlock’s tone had started off threatening, he now sounds pleading, and he pulls away from the desk abruptly, rubbing at his face in an effort to collect himself.

If only he weren't so _tired_. His mind is full of a fog in which quick, darting shadows scuttle out of sight before he can recognize and categorize them.

When Sherlock turns back around, Mycroft looks completely alarmed. It is confirmation of yet one more instance of his inability to connect on a healthy, reciprocal level with another human being, and it is too much.

"I'll text you her information," Sherlock says roughly before he flees.

His brother calls after him, but he does not stop.


	5. Chapter 5

"Are you alright?" John asks the next morning as he walks into the kitchen. “You look terrible. Did you get any sleep at all?”

Sherlock doesn’t bother to reply. He stares into the patterns formed by the untouched bowl of Alpen he had poured for himself at some point during the interminable hours since he had returned to the flat and absently wishes that he were simple-minded enough to place credence in divination: that there was something, anything—even shapes in a bowl—from which he could take direction.

He is exhausted and more unsettled than he can ever recall being, and—for the first time since his early days at university—his internal confusion has nothing to do with the distant, challenging intricacies of a case.

“Look, I know you don’t want to talk about this,” John says, settling himself into the second chair, “but I’m starting to get worried about you.”

He pauses, obviously expecting a retort, but Sherlock simply does not have the energy to oblige him.

“I’d offer you the name of my therapist, but I seriously doubt she’d know what to make of you.” Sherlock tenses involuntarily at this, gaze still locked on his breakfast, but John doesn’t notice.

“Just…keep your chin up, okay?” his flatmate goes on, clearly attempting (but utterly failing) to be of assistance. “I know it’s hard now; it’s been hard for me too, getting over what happened, but you have to keep believing that you’ll get through it. The clouds will pass, and all that.”

Sherlock lifts his head. “What did you say?”

John looks slightly nonplussed at Sherlock’s sudden animation. “What? About the importance of perseverance? “

Sherlock waves the statement away and jumps to his feet. “No, no, not that. The bit about clouds.”

“Clouds?” his flat mate echoes, now looking up at him with complete bemusement.

“Yes, _clouds_.” Sherlock confirms, already pulling on his coat.

“Where are we going?” John asks, as he takes Sherlock’s cue and moves for his coat.

“Back to Lambeth,” he replies. He abruptly feels suffused once again with energy and clarity of thought. It is an incredible relief. Sherlock pulls open the door and takes a breath of chill, invigorating air. He can feel the triumphant grin on his face as he looks at his flatmate.

“I know where Alice Toller is.”

**

John is surprised when they pull up on a familiar street.

“But we’ve been here. About five times, in fact,” he says to Sherlock. The detective takes no notice, hurriedly hopping out of the cab and leaving John to pay the fare.

He dashes across the street to stand beneath the advertisement at the small corner shop.

 **D! Cu! HIGH Pa!**

“It’s a code,” he tells John when he catches up to him. “A code based on meteorological abbreviations—specifically clouds—between Alice Toller and her very helpful friend.”

He turns in a slow circle to gauge vantage points, while beside him John squints up at the sign.

“But what does it _mean_?” his flatmate asks. “And you say it’s based on clouds?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock confirms. “In atmospheric science, clouds are classified into several different genera, each coded with a letter. The nimbus genus, coded with the letter ‘D’ refers to the vertical set of clouds responsible for inclement weather. The earlier signs including ‘Sc’ were referencing stratocumulus clouds, or fog, while ‘Cb’ denotes a cumulonimbus thunderstorm.”

John stares at him. “How on Earth do you know that?”

“In my efforts to gather information on Alice Toller’s background, I read through the summaries of the courses she attended during her brief stint at university.”

John looks strangely concerned at this pronouncement. “You haven’t slept at all have you?” Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“Additionally, ‘Pa’ stands for Pascal, a unit of barometric pressure,” he explains instead, continuing to scan the windows of the buildings opposite their location. “I presume that previous messages with their references to fog conveyed to Alice Toller that she was safely concealed, while this particular message is warning of an impending storm and high pressure: obviously an alert that her hiding place may no longer be secure, if it ever really was.”

“There,” Sherlock says, pointing to a particular flat situated on the second floor of the building caddy corner to where they are standing.

“What makes you think she’s in that one?” John asks.

“It is evident even from here that the curtains of that flat are opened frequently. See how clean the glass is? And of all the buildings in the immediate area, that one provides the best view of the sign. Also,” he continues, smiling at John, “as it happens, I know that the landlady of that building rents furnished flats by the day and is the soul of discretion when she’s paid to be.”

“And the man in the tape?”

“Works in the shop,” Sherlock replies with certainty. “It’s only by chance that we never saw him here. He must have been gathering information about the state of the search and relaying information through the updating of this sign when he was here. Alice Toller was a meteorology student once upon a time. She likely created the code to begin with.”

"Brilliant," John says simply--referring to the breaking of the code rather than the creation of it--and Sherlock does not deny the compliment. His flatmate’s simple acknowledgement of his skills is a balm to a spirit (which he scarcely credits he possesses) that is feeling increasingly raw.

“You deserve the recognition this time, John,” he says. “It was your mention of ‘clouds’ this morning that made the connection for me.”

John’s face goes vaguely anxious once again. It is an expression Sherlock is coming to loath. “About this morning, if you want to talk…”

“No time,” Sherlock cuts in. “We have an interview to conduct that is far overdue.”

With that he walks purposefully to the building across the way.

**

Gaining entry is a simple matter. Despite the landlady’s reputation for discretion, her silence is motivated by money rather than honour, and once Sherlock speaks with her, she realizes that on this occasion her words are more profitable.

The flat they are directed to is silent at his knock, the sound echoing through the hallway. They can hear nothing from beyond the door.

“Perhaps we should call Lestrade,” John says in a low voice.

Sherlock ignores him. “Alice Toller,” he calls, knocking once again. “I’ve come in regards to your father. He’s in a dangerous situation, and if you refuse to talk with us, more people will die, yourself included.”

John looks confused, but the door is pulled open abruptly to reveal a young woman with short auburn hair immediately recognizable from her photo. In person, Sherlock can confirm that her appearance is eerily similar to that of Violet Hunter.

“What do you know about my father?” Alice Toller asks.

“I know that you’re estranged,” Sherlock replies, subtly moving his foot inside the door jamb in the event she attempted to close it on them. “I know that he’s of some political importance, and I know that there was a failed attempt to kidnap you in order to coerce him into performing some action. What exactly that action is, I have not yet worked out, but given the methods of the group responsible for murdering your flatmate, I imagine it’s not anything we want to see occur.”

At the mention of her flatmate, Alice’s eyes go moist. She blinks the wetness away angrily and tightens her hands on the door.

“Who are you then?” she demands, voice rough. “Are you with those bastards who shot Jo? Or did my father send you?”

“Neither,” Sherlock replies. “We’re investigating the murder of Joanna Fowler, and the path it’s taken us on has led us here to you.” He pauses and then asks as politely as he is able, “May we come in?”

She laughs, though it’s a harsh sound with no humour in it. “May as well. Whoever you are, you’ve already found me. Whatever you intend, I think I’d rather it not happen in the hallway.” With that she turns and walks further into the flat, leaving the door open behind her.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate and walks in quickly, John closing and--after a moment of consideration--locking the door behind them.

The flat is bare and drab, populated with cheap, scuffed furniture and dominated by empty, dingy walls. It is not by any stretch of the imagination a place of comfort, but it is obvious from looking at her that Alice Toller is not in a state to concern herself with the aesthetics of her surroundings.

She paces near the window, jerkily lighting a cigarette and sucking in the smoke compulsively. She does not look at them.

“D. Cu. HIGH Pa,” Sherlock tells her after seating himself on the sagging, paisley couch. “That’s what the sign says at the moment. I doubt your friend would have had a chance to update it in the time since we arrived.”

He hasn’t managed to shock her. “Worked it out, did you?” she asks, scratching her forehead with her free hand. Her skin looks dry and her hair oily. It is clear that bathing has not been a priority since she fled Hackney. “I studied a bit of meteorology before I quit uni. I didn’t do well in it, but it was all I could think of at the time.”

“When will your friend return?” Sherlock asks her, wondering if he should expect another party to join the interview. She looks at him appraisingly but not suspiciously. It seems fear would require more energy than she currently possesses.

“Bobby,” she answers simply. “He’ll be back later. But leave him out of this. He’s a good kid. I should never have involved him, but I didn’t have anyone else to call. He doesn’t deserve this sort of trouble.”

“What sort of trouble is that exactly?” John asks softly. He has propped himself against the wall. Sherlock knows he chose the position for its manoeuvrability in the event of danger, and it lights something up inside of him as he recognizes (once again) how seamlessly they work within their partnership.

Alice looks contemplatively at the cigarette, her eyes distant.

“I used to be a drug addict,” she says apropos of nothing. “I suppose I still am, actually. Isn’t that what they say? Recovery from addiction isn’t something you just finish one day. It’s on-going.”

She rests her hip against the small table by the window. “I’ve been in a support group for almost two years. That’s where I met Bobby. Jo was so proud of me, of my sobriety. She always saw me as better than I am. It was one of the reasons I loved her, even though I knew how selfish it was.”

Sherlock flashes to the colourful, lived-in bed in the destroyed flat in Hackney standing in reflection to the well-made, utilitarian one on the opposite wall (no doubt used by guests). Though he had not explicitly speculated on their relationship, it is obvious that Joanna Fowler was far more than Alice’s flatmate, and Sherlock feels something inside of him twinge at her shattered expression.

The realization that it is _this_ fact (of love and loss) rather than a comparable past of drug use and addiction that strikes a chord of resonance within him is like a blow.

“But I’m shit,” Alice continues neutrally. “If I could lay my hands on some heroin, I would in a heartbeat. Bobby even offered to fetch it for me. He runs it sometimes. But the cost is too high right now thanks to the shortage, and what _is_ out there isn’t pure.”

She flicks the ashes off her cigarette into a small bin, face bitter. “I’m here now, sober at the worst point in my life, because of money and fear. Not inner strength or anything else meaningful, so it’s not something I can even be proud of.”

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John’s face shutter. Given the similarities between Alice and Harry, he’s not surprised that his flatmate is finding the conversation painful, and Sherlock feels a flash of guilt as he remembers his disparaging words to John the night before. With difficulty, he sets the feeling aside for the time being.

“I’ve never been proud of my past,” Alice continues, “but it wasn’t something I dwelled on. I thought I left it all behind, until a few weeks ago.”

“What happened?” John asks, face openly compassionate.

Alice bites her lip, and Sherlock realizes she is holding back tears. Her voice is impressively composed as she speaks.

“I’d just finished my support group meeting when a man came up and introduced himself to me. Said his name was David, but I knew he was lying. He dropped a few names of people I used to know before I was sober so I would know he was legit.”

“Can you describe him?”

She shrugs. “Young, maybe thirty or so. Short and a bit skinny, but handsome enough. Dark hair and eyes.”

“Did he happen to have a star tattoo on his arm?” John asks somewhat hopefully, but Alice shakes her head.

“What did he want?” Sherlock asks.

Again a pause. “Sometimes when I was high, I would talk. About work or school. Anything really. It’s so easy to feel connected to others when you’ve shot up.” She sounds wistful for a moment, and Sherlock sympathizes: when reality is intolerable and arduous to navigate, a chemical stimulant seems like a panacea.

“I don’t know when exactly,” she continues, taking another drag of her cigarette, “but at some point I must have talked about my father. He was never around when I was a kid. Just sent cheques to my mum every month. Hush money so she wouldn’t tell his wife about me. David knew about him.”

“Why did he approach you?”

“He had a plan, he said. He wanted to expand his operations, and he thought I could help.”

“What sort of operations?”

Her eyes go hazy for a moment as she thinks before she answers. “I think it was drugs, but he never said exactly. I was supposed to hide out for awhile and pretend to be kidnapped. His group would call my father up and threaten him, first with my death, and then--if he didn’t agree to do what they wanted--to make my parentage public. If anything, it would be the threat to his image that would compel him,” she says bitterly. “He’s never given a fuck about me.”

“But something changed,” Sherlock says. It is not a question.

Alice squeezes her eyes shut tightly, her face such a picture of agony for a moment that Sherlock has to glance away. When he looks back, her eyes are still closed, but her pain is obvious only in the lines around her mouth.

“They were going to pay me to do it,” she sighs. “Good money. I hadn’t been able to find a job, and Joanna was working herself to the bone keeping the rent paid. But when I told her about the plan, she was so angry.”

Her eyes, once she reopens them, are lost and sad. “She yelled at me for an hour. Said that she didn’t want to see me taking even a single step back toward the drug world. She said that I was worth more than that.” Her voice breaks for a moment, and she turns her back on them to rub at her eyes.

“You told David you would not participate,” Sherlock says. Again, it is not a question.

“Yes,” Alice confirms, voice raw. “He had always been nice when we talked. And very accommodating. I thought it wouldn’t be a problem. When I backed out of the plan, I even told him that--since he already knew my father’s secret--it wasn’t any skin off my nose if he took it to the press. I thought that was the end of it.”

She does not falter as she finishes the tale, and against his will, Sherlock feels a whisper of admiration.

“But then, three nights ago, a group of men broke into our flat, shot Joanna, and took me. They shut me in the boot of their car, but it was an old banger and didn’t close properly, so I managed to get out when they stopped at a red light. I called Bobby and asked him to bring me some things from the flat. And I hid. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

“Why haven’t you gone to the police,” John asks. “Don’t you want justice for Joanna?” Alice goes white-faced at the question.

“Jo is dead,” she says harshly. “Because of _me_. I’m the one who brought David into our lives, and I’m the one who thought it would be safe to stay in our flat after I told him I’d changed my mind. _I’m_ the one who should suffer.”

“It’s clear you already are,” Sherlock observes quietly, if not particularly gently. “But more than that, you’re sitting here wallowing in self-pity while the men who are truly responsible for your lover’s death continue their plan by blackmailing your father with your safety.”

Alice looks shocked. “That’s impossible. He would never agree to anything without proof that they had me, and they _don’t_ have me.”

“They hired the services of an escort who is very similar to you in appearance. They had her sit for a time in St. James’s Park the morning after their failed abduction. No doubt they called your father to the same location to provide evidence that they truly had you in their power.”

She sinks down onto the table, hands trembling. “I didn’t know this would happen,” she says, voice plaintive and broken.

“What do they want?” John asks her urgently. “Who is your father?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “David never said what they were going to make him do, only that no one would be hurt. He said it was just business.”

She is clearly overwrought, and Sherlock has to resist the urge to shake her. Something of his frustration must be evident on his face, because John gestures at him to stay put while she collects herself.

“My father is a Commander in the Met,” she says at last, lips bloodless. “Commander Jephro Rucastle with Serious and Organized Crime.”

**

They rush to the station immediately while Sherlock tries to ring Lestrade on both his office line and his mobile. The DI does not answer, and when John and Sherlock at last enter the station, it is only the knowledge that the constable staffing the front would disapprove to the point of taking them into custody that keeps them from running at full tilt.

Lestrade is standing on the main floor reviewing a report, Sally at his elbow, when they jog up breathlessly. His eyes widen at their appearance.

“What’s happened?” Lestrade asks sharply. “Is it--,” he cuts himself off with a look at John, who shakes his head once. _Moriarty_ , Sherlock’s brain supplies. Any other moment, the thought would be enough to throw him, but time is frighteningly short, and he cannot afford to be distracted.

“We’ve found Alice Toller,” Sherlock tells the DI. “She was abducted the night of the murder, managed to escape her captors, and has been hiding in a rented flat in Lambeth since.”

Lestrade frowns. “Why didn’t she call the police?”

“She was originally involved in a plot with the group responsible. When she backed out, they abducted her from her flat and killed her girlfriend, Joanna Fowler.” Sherlock sees Sally blink in surprise at his words, but she remains silent about both the new information and his presence, for which he is thankful. He feels unsettled and angry in her company--her words to him echoing in his memory ( _like goes to like and all_ )--and he has neither the time nor the energy to engage in another battle with her.

“What plot?” the DI asks. “And why bother with abducting her? If they were afraid she would talk, it would have been simpler for them to kill her too.”

“Her father is a Commander in the Met,” Sherlock explains. “Originally, she was to stay out of sight while her father was blackmailed into performing some action--don’t bother asking what; there’s not enough data to hypothesize--but when she decided not to participate, they chose to abduct her in reality. Joanna Fowler was simply in the way.”

“Who is he?” Lestrade asks evenly.

“Commander Rucastle,” John answers, with a somewhat chilly look to Sally. It is clear Sherlock is not the only one with outstanding issues from their last visit to the station.

Lestrade nods and moves to the phone immediately. He speaks into it briefly before turning back to them.

“Rucastle is out in the field. He and the rest of his command are preparing to launch a sting to dismantle a major distributor of illegal drugs in London. Commander Millens is coordinating the operation from the station. He and Commander Myers are on their way here.”

“The only member of the operation that Alice Toller ever met in person is a man she knows as David.” Sherlock says. “Her description of him is less than helpful, but you should take her into protective custody and send a sketch artist to her location immediately.” He gives the address, and Lestrade takes it down before again turning to his phone.

“I don’t get it,” Sally speaks at last while Lestrade is occupied. “If Alice was meant to be collateral for Commander Rucastle’s cooperation, how will the murderers move forward now that she’s escaped?”

“They found a proxy,” Sherlock says grimly without looking at her. “A prostitute by the name of Violet Hunter bears a strong resemblance to her. She was hired to spend some time in St. James’s Park recently at the request of an anonymous client. I expect Rucastle was called there as well and was led to believe that the criminals truly did have his daughter. He is without a doubt compromised.”

“That’s what I feel, Mr Holmes,” says a bespectacled man that Sherlock assumes is Commander Myers as he steps into the office. Commander Millens is just behind him. “Until we determine the full extent of these allegations, Commander Rucastle will need to step down from his command. But we’ll need to do it quietly. We don’t want either panic or a scandal on our hands.”

Millens scoffs, a sceptical expression gracing his narrow face. “The full extent of these _rumours_ you mean. We have no evidence of any blackmail attempt beyond the word of that man,” he says pointing to Sherlock in such a way as to make it evident what he thinks of the detective’s veracity. Beside him, John bristles slightly.

Commander Myers remains unperturbed. “Be that as it may, I have the assurance of DI Lestrade that such evidence is forthcoming.” Unprompted, Lestrade nods in confirmation, and Myers continues.

“Given the significance of the accusations, I believe the only course of action is to request Commander Rucastle to come in to the station. As it happens, the Commissioner agrees with me.”

He looks to Lestrade. “Detective Inspector, I would like you and your people to accompany me to Commander Rucastle’s location. In the event that a police presence is necessary, I would like you to assume command.”

Lestrade salutes smartly. “Sir.” The Commanders and Sally exit the office, but before the DI follows he stops in front of Sherlock.

“Good work,” Lestrade says. “I think it’s fair to say we would not have unravelled this mess as quickly without you.” Before Sherlock can do more than blink at the unexpected (and infrequently gifted) compliment, he continues.

“But you stay _here_. I don’t know what sort of situation we’re going into, and there’s no place for a civilian.” The man even extends his index finger as though lecturing an errant child. Then he has the gall to turn to John. “Keep him here, please.”

Then he walks out. It is the most anticlimactic resolution to the case that Sherlock can imagine, and had John not planted himself immediately in the doorway, he would have followed at once.

But it is clear from John’s raised chin and crossed arms that--despite the differences in their heights--he has no intention of allowing Sherlock a step out of the station. Sherlock pulls a face to make it evident how he feels about the corralling before seating himself on top of Lestrade’s desk with a theatrical sigh.

“Don’t pout,” his flatmate says. “You got to do all the detecting you wanted and unravel a ridiculously complicated case. Surely that’s more than enough. There’s no need to go running into danger as well.”

“Hypocrite,” Sherlock mutters in response. “Anyone who has enlisted in the military is not allowed to lecture against exposing oneself to danger.”

John ignores him. “I tell you what, I’ll go get us something to eat.” It is only as he says it that Sherlock realizes that he hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. “But I want you to promise that you will not step foot outside of the station.”

“Of course. I promise,” Sherlock says dismissively, waving his flatmate away with a careless gesture. John doesn’t move.

“I mean it, Sherlock. I want your word--on our friendship--that you won’t chase after Lestrade and the others.” His blue eyes are intensely serious as he stares at Sherlock, and after a moment the detective is forced to look away.

“I promise,” Sherlock says again, this time meaning it. Given the perimeter that Myers would doubtlessly establish, he would have difficulty reaching the scene anyway.

John nods. “Good, though I’ll be telling the constable at the desk to keep an eye out for you as well. Chinese okay?”

Sherlock just waves him away, already focused on entertaining himself over the next (no doubt excruciatingly boring) hours by going through Lestrade’s files.

It is only after John has been gone for fifteen minutes or so that the nagging thought Sherlock had been unable to pin down finally clarifies.

Commander Rucastle headed the Serious and Organized Crime Group of the Met. With ten units of specialty ranging from blackmail and kidnappings to firearms and drugs, it seemed impossible to deduce with available information what specifically his blackmailers were attempting to exploit. Alice Toller had assumed that ‘David’s’ expanding business was in the drug trade, but this could easily be coloured by her own past experiences.

But the contracting of Violet Hunter had been a risky move on the part of the kidnappers: there was no guarantee that she would not have gone to the police, despite lacking a concrete complaint, and therefore tipping Rucastle to the ruse. No, it would have been much more orderly to have continued the search for Alice Toller. The building she had secreted herself in was known as being favoured for such purposes. It was only a matter of time before she had been discovered and recaptured.

The only reason the criminals would have used a proxy was if they felt there was no alternative. Meaning that there is another variable to the crime that Sherlock has not taken into account: time.

It has now become clear that the aspect of the plot that requires Rucastle’s cooperation most likely includes a time limit: one that is approaching so swiftly, the abductors had felt they could not gamble on finding Alice Hunter before it passed.

Sherlock knows from his recent trips to the station that the operation that falls most obviously within these criteria is the large drug sting that Lestrade and Myers are attempting to stall.

He helps himself to both Lestrade’s computer and his password (the name of a former wife to whom he is obviously still attached), hopping onto the Met’s intranet to access any files about the planned operation.

Despite his expectations, it is clear immediately that Rucastle was not being pressured to stop the operation. If anything, the man had pushed for it to occur sooner and with almost twice the man power that was originally planned.

But why would a criminal network (given the intricacy of the crime, a network is surely involved) wish to _promote_ a police operation?

The answer is obvious as soon as he asks himself the question: rivalry. For a criminal organization to push for the dismantling or destruction of another, it is with the plan of filling the space left behind. Immediately, he remembers Alice Toller’s comments on the current heroin shortage and Violet Hunter’s description of the tattoo she glimpsed during her time in St. James’s Park, and the final objective of these machinations is suddenly blindingly clear to him.

Sherlock turns automatically to tell John of his realizations, remembering a moment later that he is alone.

Unquestionably he has grown accustomed to John’s presence at his side. Whether his flatmate’s company is an asset or a weakness, Sherlock is not prepared to state unequivocally (despite having always preferred working alone, he could never deny the synergy of their collaborations), and he is in no fit state to judge at the moment. Again remembering his words the night before, he suppresses a wince. Sherlock knows himself to be capable of cruelty, but it is not often that he tailors his words specifically to that purpose.

His accusation of John’s motivations in assisting him circle in his memory, and he sinks wearily back in the chair. _Play the hero…_

Only to jump to his feet a moment later, electrified by the connection his mind has finally made.

He has been pushing away the final question of _who_ was behind the complicated and ambitious blackmail plot: there was simply neither the time nor the data necessary to form a factual conclusion.

(And inside a small voice has been whispering that perhaps it is _he_ , returned as promised to gift Sherlock with another opportunity to alleviate his boredom. Sherlock is unable to determine if trepidation, anger or excitement is the dominant emotion evoked by the possibility, and that is the most frightening of all.)

But it is clear that despite his reluctance to approach the question, his subconscious has been absorbing information and processing it to reach a conclusion. Now, even without it being his intention, these disparate bits of data are linking into an obvious chain leading him to one inevitable conclusion. One obvious manipulator.

Sherlock glances out onto the main floor and sees the constables on duty rushing about in a flurry of activity, no doubt in response to Commander Myer’s final orders before departing to confront Commander Rucastle.

No one is paying him any attention.

Walking casually but confidently, he slips from Lestrade’s office and moves deeper into the building.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes him no longer than a few minutes to locate the office he seeks, the internal directory for the Metropolitan Police Service being surprisingly helpful and up to date.

Seating himself at the computer, he begins his attempts at hacking into the machine. It has been some time since Sherlock has needed to do this--Lestrade is very efficient at locating any internal information he may need for his investigations--and it takes him longer than he has anticipated.

Still, he is not expecting to be interrupted, and it is with a lurch of surprise that he does not allow to be visible on his face that he looks up at the unanticipated voice.

“Mr Holmes, this is unexpected,” Inspector Trujillo says, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s extremely incriminating position. “Can I help you with something," he shifts his gaze meaningfully, "on my personal computer?”

"Not especially," Sherlock replies as he casually gets to his feet. "I was simply looking for a way to access a case file, and your office was the closest."

"Really?" Trujillo responded, voice equally unperturbed. He walks casually just inside the door and pauses near a large bookcase full of texts that dominates the far wall. "I would have thought DI Lestrade's computer would have been the most convenient for you, given your work with CID. I don't believe I've ever seen you in this part of the station. Whatever brought you back this way?"

"Merely stretching my legs," Sherlock lies, moving circumspectly to get from behind the desk. He had assumed Trujillo would be out in the field with Rucastle. What was the man doing here? "I was struck by an idea during my walk and didn't want to take the time to return to Lestrade's office. I apologize for my presumption." Trujillo's face is blankly amiable. "I've been told that my disregard for manners and privacy borders on pathological."

The man chuckles. "I've heard that as well, actually." Still smiling, he smoothly pulls a gun from behind the bookcase and points it at the detective. "Sit down," he orders. "But put your arms above your head, if you please."

Sherlock complies, sinking slowly into the desk chair and keeping his hands visible. He recognizes the bulky shape of a silencer on Trujillo's weapon, highlighting the gun’s highly illegal (and sinister) purpose.

The Inspector gestures at him with the weapon. “Now move yourself against that wall. Slowly.”

The chair Sherlock is sitting in is on wheels. He complies with the order by pushing his feet gently against the desk and rolling to a stop against the wall indicated, feeling ridiculous despite the danger of the situation.

“You can’t really mean to shoot me in the middle of the station,” Sherlock says conversationally to the other man as he shuts the office door and moves around the desk. “My opinion of the investigative abilities of the police is well known, but even they would be able to determine who was responsible if my body were found shot in your office. And despite their names, silencers only dampen the sound of a shot, not supress it. Someone will hear.”

Trujillo ignores him, reaching down and disconnecting an external hard drive connected to the computer with a quick shift of his fingers. He does not take his eyes off of Sherlock while he does so. Nor lower the gun.

“I have no intention of shooting you in my office,” Trujillo murmurs. The Inspector’s phone beeps to indicate an incoming text, and he pulls it efficiently from his pocket, gun steady all the while. He frowns at whatever he reads.

“Is that your Colombian friend?” Sherlock asks innocently. Trujillo’s eyes shoot to him at once, clearly startled, though he is not as thrown as Sherlock had hoped.

“Although perhaps you are Colombian as well,” he continues. “That seems possible: an organization of immigrants working to supplant the current drug market with Colombian heroin.”

Trujillo smiles, already fully recovered from his moment of surprise. “I was born in Leeds,” he says, voice amused. Sherlock finds his maintained amiability in conjunction with the threat of his weapon chilling. “But my parents emigrated from Colombia, so I suppose you’re not too far off.”

“I would never have guessed if not for your confederate’s tattoo,” Sherlock says in an attempt to keep him talking. The chance of another officer happening upon them is slim, but at the moment it appears to be his only course of action. “A yellow star is not a highly specific symbol--I can think of at least five possible meanings without much difficulty--but taken with the rest, it became obvious that your friend is a former member of the Popular Liberation Army of Colombia. He didn’t speak to Violet Hunter in St. James’s Park because he feared his accent would give him away. Or perhaps he doesn’t speak English well enough to engage her in conversation at all. I imagine mercenaries are an excellent source of labour for your purposes, given the various defunct paramilitary organisations in Colombia such as the one your companion was affiliated with, but I doubt they’re as useful for subterfuge.”

Trujillo’s eyes are shrewd. “You really are everything they’ve said,” he says. From his expression, it is clearly not meant as a compliment. “Stand up.”

Sherlock does, a cold feeling beginning to coalesce in his stomach at the man’s continued confidence. “I thought we determined that it would be foolhardy of you to shoot me.”

“We did,” the other man agrees. “But leaving you here would be equally foolish, so I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “I imagine the police in the building will take issue with you walking me out at gunpoint.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Trujillo says, smiling. “You should hear half of what they say about you. If anything, I imagine I’d be applauded. But that would bring unwanted attention, so I’m afraid it’s not feasible. No, you’re going to walk out with me calmly. No gun needed.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t,” the man replies, pulling a small, cylindrical object from his desk drawer (Sherlock wonders inanely how many items Trujillo could possibly have secreted about the office), “I will detonate this and a great many people in this station will die. Or at the very least, be very tragically injured.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not, I assure you. But do you honestly want to risk the lives of so many officers on the slim chance that I may not be able to deliver on my threat?”

“It’s a ridiculous threat. You haven’t had time to place a bomb. You only came upon me two minutes ago,” Sherlock says, voice far more confident than he actually feels.

“Unfortunately for you, I _do_ work here. The bomb has been in place for months. It’s not large, but I placed it where I knew it would have…maximum impact. My dad was an engineer, so I’ve had practice with this sort of thing. I had hoped never to be in a position to use it, but needs must.”

“You’ll be killed in the blast as well,” Sherlock points out, heart pounding a bit quicker at this serenely imparted information.

“Mmm, but you see, I never meant for the bomb to destroy my office,” Trujillo says, that same, chilling smile adorning his face. “It’s meant for the main floor.” The main floor, where John was even now returning, could have _already_ returned, only to be threatened by an imminent explosion.

Not again. _No_. There is a litany in Sherlock’s head, and it almost drowns out Trujillo’s words.

“It was meant as a distraction really, to occupy everyone while I snuck away with any information pertinent to my business concerns.” He brandishes the hard drive before slipping it into his coat pocket. “Which I am now ready to do, albeit with an unexpected guest.”

Trujillo slips the gun into his jacket out of sight and hangs the hand holding the detonator down by his side. Had Sherlock not known better, he would have thought it a pen.

“Now, walk.” Trujillo orders. “Normally and silently. Make for the East entrance. If I get any indication that you’re attempting to alert anyone, I _will_ detonate the bomb. The path we’ll be following will take us far enough from the blast that we’ll not be caught in it. But a great many others will. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies through gritted teeth, hands clenching ineffectually into fists at his side. There’s nothing for it: this is not a gamble he is prepared to take. Not with John’s life in the balance.

He walks as directed, face as composed as he can make it, though he is certain that he must be paler than usual. It feels as though all the blood that should have been in his head has slipped into his chest, urging the tempo of his heart into a ferocious, shuddering beat.

Trujillo does not speak again, for which he is grateful. His mind is working furiously, calculating odds and opportunities, in a desperate attempt to find some clear way out of this situation. But he is more than a little fatigued (and _angry_ ), and his mind is not working with the clarity it usually possesses.

It derails entirely when he catches sight of John.

He only glimpses him for an instant. There is an opening in the corridor he is being shepherded along that looks into the main floor. Though his view lasts for only a split-second, it is more than enough for him to recognize his flatmate by his stance: quietly confident; self-possessed. Strong in a way that has nothing to do with musculature.

Sherlock’s head turns to hold his friend in his view, his eyes drawn unerringly toward him. For only a moment, time seems to slow, and he is conscious of his every inhalation--heavy in his chest--and the sound of his boots on the cheaply carpeted hall. John begins to turn in his direction, and he finds himself holding his breath, hoping (wishing?) that he will have this opportunity.

Then their steps take them past the opening completely, and John is lost from sight.

“Keep going,” Trujillo orders him coldly. Sherlock had not realized he had slowed, and it takes a monumental effort of will to force his legs back into motion.

Any hope he has of someone discerning the truth of his situation expires when they reach the East door and he sees that the security desk is once again unmanned. Due to budgetary constraints, it had been determined that the smaller side doors of the station were to be exclusively for exiting officers who wished to avoid the noise and confusion of the main entrance. Entry was not possible from this direction, and no one had been able to conceive of circumstances in which danger might be _exiting_ the station.

Then they are on the pavement, Sherlock’s ability for acute and accurate observation subsumed under a deluge of sensation that comes dangerously close to panic. He walks obediently and silently through the (useless) crowd of pedestrians and expects that now--any moment now--Trujillo will push the button, despite the implication that Sherlock’s compliance would avert the carnage that would follow.

But he does not, and as they move further from the station, Sherlock finds the haze of anxiety—not, as one may expect, for himself or even the countless lives that may be lost were the bomb to detonate, but for John—diminishes with every step, and resolve to overcome the corrupt DI wells up in its place. He recognizes the type of electronic detonator that Trujillo had chosen, and he is well acquainted with the distance that is necessary for the transponder to receive its signal.

 _Twenty metres._

Once they are beyond its operational radius, the threat of the bomb is an empty one, and he will have his opportunity.

 _Fifteen metres._

Trujillo is well muscled, obviously strong, but Sherlock’s reach is superior. If he moves quickly enough, he will be able to disarm the other man before he has a chance to retaliate.

 _Ten metres now._

Sherlock is not expecting hands-on violence from his gun wielding captor, and as such, the sharp push between his shoulder blades catches him entirely by surprise, forcing him to stumble into a narrow alley that they have come upon.

A second prod from Trujillo's boot ensures he continues to the end of the alley, which in turn opens to a larger area behind the looming buildings. Sherlock catches himself against a large skip. When he looks back at the Inspector, he is certain it is with a rather wild look. His heart rate has skyrocketed, and the expected sight of the gun once again in the man's hand does nothing to calm it.

The service yard is shadowed and deserted: the sounds of life from the street penetrating it easily, but view of the entrance back to the street obscured by (strategic) corners. With Trujillo standing armed between him and any hope of aid and holding the life of John so casually in his hand, Sherlock has never felt more cornered.

"This isn’t personal," Trujillo says in that same calm voice. "But it seems that since you're the only one who has realized my connection to the drug market, it’s in my best interests to be rid of you."

“There are at least thirty constables who saw me leave with you as well as numerous security cameras,” Sherlock says, mouth dry. "You can't actually expect to get away with my murder."

"I'll take the risk," The DI replies unconcernedly. "I maintained several metres between us in the station, so it's not something that will be immediately evident. Not many people are as clever as you. I doubt the suspicion that you were forcibly abducted from a police station will cross anyone's minds once your body is recovered from the sewer."

Sherlock notes the manhole near his feet: its cover already helpfully lifted enough for a single man to gain adequate purchase to lift it. He had assumed the skip to be the linchpin of Trujillo’s plan, and--though he is aware that it is an absurd reaction and no doubt caused by his mind's attempts to shield itself--he is uncertain which method he would prefer to be used for his disposal: neither is particularly appealing when he pictures the state his corpse will be in once it’s found.

"Besides," Trujillo continues, "they'll be far too distracted with their own problems to worry about sifting through hours of security footage for some sign of you." To Sherlock's horror, Trujillo lifts the hand holding the detonator in a clear indication of his intention.

"No, don't," he orders, though he is unable to muster more than a murmur through the tightness of his throat.

"There are always casualties in war. But try to be rational: you won't be around for it to bother you."

Sherlock’s head is spinning sickly, and he is patently unable to come up with a plan to guarantee both his life and the safety of the people inside the station. Trujillo stands several metres away, gun trained unerringly at Sherlock’s head and detonator at the ready. Were he to attempt to rush the man, it is unlikely he would get more than a step or two before being felled in a hail of bullets. Or perhaps only a single bullet. Trujillo stands with all the confidence of a trained marksman.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes," Trujillo says, no obvious enjoyment on his face, but brutality in his eyes. "I'm sorry it's come to this."

Sherlock’s brain cannot help but calculate scenarios for his survival, throwing about figures, forces and distances in an ultimately futile barrage. The end result is him standing where he has been led, as frozen as an animal watching a lorry barrel down upon it.

"Three,” Trujillo begins a count, highlighting a nature of fundamental cruelty.

Desperate, Sherlock’s mind flashes with random images from his past and present in a last bid for inspiration: Mycroft in his school uniform, primly perched in a chair in the library and lecturing an avidly listening Sherlock on the finer points of botany. Sally Donovan with her expression full of certainty as she predicts his future. Sherlock’s room in boarding school, no decoration on the wall save for a sepia photograph of a beech tree he had taken during a phase of experimentation with film development.

"Two."

The burned out light bulb from the doorstep at Baker Street. Lestrade's eyes as Sherlock comes at last out of his most recent drug haze, disappointed and sorrowful. Alice Toller's face as she recounts her role in the death of the person most dear to her. The words of the book that outlined the characteristics of the disorder that had so dictated his life: _egocentrism, megalomania, lack of responsibility, excessive hedonism, high impulsivity, and superficial charm._

He doesn't know what to do.

"One."

(John)

The gun fires.

It takes Sherlock an unforgivably long moment to realize that he is not wounded, and that the single shot that was loosed was not followed by a second attempt.

He opens his eyes, unable to pinpoint when exactly he had closed them, and sees John. Brave, stupid, beautiful, wonderful John, his arm—clutching a baton so forcefully that his fingers have gone white—still raised threateningly.

Trujillo lies stretched across the pavement, summarily knocked unconscious by a blow to the head, a small amount of blood visible through his dark hair giving evidence to the strength of the hit. The pressure of the last few seconds on his already taxed system catches up to Sherlock, and he sinks to his knees, grey spots appearing around his eyes as he comes dangerously close to losing consciousness.

"Sherlock!"

Warm, blunt-fingered hands reach for him and run through his hair as John kneels beside him and searches for injuries.

"Are you hurt?" John asks. His voice is borderline frantic. "Did he hit you?"

"How did you know?" Sherlock gasps, leaving his obvious lack of wounds to speak for itself. He realizes his breaths are coming shallowly and quickly enough to induce hyperventilation. With effort he works to slow them, matching his breathing to John's. Though given the paleness of his flatmate's face, he is equally overwrought.

"I saw you. I knew you wouldn't leave. Well-," John corrects, clearly forcing a rueful smile, "I knew that if you were leaving you wouldn't be walking. Not with a policeman anyway. I'm just glad your coat is so recognizable, even from a dist-"

Sherlock kisses him, the blood pumping furiously through his body. He was alive. John was alive. Alive, alive, alive.

The angle is awkward, and the odour from the skip is an unpleasant note to the experience. It is still unquestionably exquisite.

"Well," John says sitting back on his heels after a moment, still a bit pale, "that was, umm, unexpected."

Sherlock peers up at him, realizing that he's still on his knees in a dirty alley (and that if they weren't ruined before, his trousers were certainly due for the bin now), and tries to formulate words to adequately convey the violent cyclone of emotions, images and realizations that are swirling through him. Before he can, there are uniforms at the head of the alley and shouts for them to lie on the ground and show their hands (silencers, as Sherlock had pointed out earlier, are not truly ‘silent’).

They comply at once. And if they lie nearer to one another than typical suspects would in this situation, it is only because they are as far from typical as one can get.

**

Sherlock had turned down the blanket when the paramedic offered it to him, visibly concerned at his low blood pressure (knowing it is the result of a lack of sleep and food rather than shock, Sherlock is less concerned). But there is a chill in the air, and he is hunched deep inside his coat perched at the back of the ambulance when Lestrade finally locates him. John had been pulled away immediately for questioning when the constables had at last permitted them to explain the events that had occurred in the alley.

Sherlock has allowed his exhaustion to catch him now that there is no immediate danger, and after propping himself against the side of the vehicle, he has refused to move for the last half hour. His mind is still unquiet, the chaos churning and eddying within him not addressed by the paramedics’ application of bottled water and cheap, musty blanket.

He stirs at last at the DI's approach.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asks him quietly.

"As good as ever," Sherlock replies. There's an awkward pause. This is his first time alone (for a given value of 'alone,' as there are countless law enforcement professionals milling about) with the DI, and their conversation at the station wells up between them like a wave. Sherlock decides that he is simply unwilling to swim through it at the moment.

"John saved my life," he says instead. Lestrade looks confused by the statement, as though he wonders if perhaps Sherlock's mental state has been so affected as to begin stating the obvious.

"With a baton," Sherlock continues. "An extendable baton, of the type that only law enforcement has legal permission to carry."

Lestrade's face shows a vague sense of shame. "It’s a sample from a shipment that was sent to our department. I obtained…de facto permission for John to evaluate its feasibility as a protective measure for officers to carry on patrol.” He pauses. “It seemed a worthwhile precaution, given the circumstances."

Lestrade does not identify which circumstances he means exactly, but Sherlock nods his understanding anyway. He had not truly needed the confirmation that John and Lestrade had been discussing strategies to deal with Moriarty's inevitable return without his knowledge. He had worked it out himself a few minutes after he had been handed off to the paramedics. What he does not know is if his exclusion was due to concern for his safety or doubt of his loyalties. It is one more facet of the complicated, tangled relationships he has found himself embroiled in, and he pushes it to the back of his mind without regret.

Sherlock had not realized, back during his rebellion into social interaction at university, that relationships with others could be so entirely painful.

Lestrade's face is edging again into concern at his silence, so Sherlock takes control of the interrogation (for he has no illusions as to what this is).

“You’ll find once you look into Trujillo’s background and associates that he represents a Colombian drug cartel. I don’t know which, and for our purposes, it scarcely matters. He and the others in the organisation were blackmailing Commander Rucastle to crush the existing drug powers in London with the expectation of taking advantage of the current heroin drought.”

“Heroin drought?” the DI echoes, face doubtful. “Who came up with that?”

“There was an article in the Guardian,” Sherlock says dismissively. “The poppy crop in Afghanistan was recently decimated by blight, and the world’s supply of heroin has dropped substantially. Those who profit from the illegal drug trade have quickly exhausted their stock, and the cost of what remains is skyrocketing. It’s an excellent opportunity for an enterprising young drug lord like Trujillo.”

“And his plan was, what, to use the police to take out the competition?”

“Precisely. He needed Rucastle to expand the current sting operation into a significant, inescapable trap for his competitors. A bit too inescapable, actually. Once I realized that Rucastle was being blackmailed into escalating the sting, it became obvious that someone with detailed knowledge of current drug enforcement operations must be involved. Given his position as Rucastle’s aid, Trujillo was the most likely candidate. No doubt he would have continued the blackmail to compel Rucastle to look the other way as his own operation grew.”

“About that,” the DI says, “we stopped Rucastle and brought him in just before the sting commenced. He came clean immediately about the blackmail once we informed him that Alice Toller was safely in our custody.”

“Good, I suppose,” Sherlock replies. “Though it seems a shame to end an operation that would have such a substantial impact on the drug trade in London.”

“Well we could hardly have let it go on, not knowing what it was the blackmailers wanted.”

“It also seems likely that there was a vital timeline that Trujillo was working in support of that made him feel that Rucastle must be within his control by the time of the operation. Perhaps there’s a shipment of drugs currently on its way from South America and he wanted the way clear before it came here. You should look into that,” he adds absently.

Lestrade’s mouth twitches. “I’ll do that, thanks.” He pauses as he considers Sherlock once again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“He didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s not what I meant. If you want to talk about the other day…”

“I can think of nothing I’d rather avoid,” he replies fervently.

Lestrade smiles, and a small knot of tension inside Sherlock’s chest that he has been carrying since their confrontation loosens slightly. If they can still banter as before, the issue cannot be insurmountable.

“Good, because it’s your turn to give a statement.”

Sherlock makes a face. “Can’t you check the security tapes from the station? I‘m certain they captured the entire episode perfectly.”

“And miss out on your delightful company? Not a chance.”

**

Giving his statement takes at least two hours (ridiculous, as he was only in Trujillo’s company for a quarter of an hour), and by the time Sherlock is finally released, he is practically crawling up the walls.

He is less than pleased when Sally Donovan is the one assigned to escort him from the wing of interview rooms back to Lestrade’s office. She doesn’t speak, but it is evident from her long stare that she wishes to.

“What?” Sherlock snaps at her. He is even more worn-out and drained than before the entire ordeal, and he has no tolerance to spare her.

She doesn’t flinch as she continues to assess him. “I don’t trust you,” she says at last. He resists the urge (barely) to point out how obvious her statement is. “One day you’re going to snap, and it was clear from the get-go that you don’t have the empathy or compassion you need to keep you from really hurting someone.”

“Is there a point to this little exercise in psychological analysis? Or is this your best attempt at small talk?”

“But Lestrade pointed out that maybe you could learn to be decent, since somehow you missed out on that bit during your life until now,” she continues, ignoring his jibes.

“Well, so long as _Lestrade_ thinks so.”

She glowers at him. “And the _only_ reason I’m even entertaining the possibility of it happening is because you finally got yourself a role model.” She pushes the door to the main floor open with more force than necessary (sometimes he wonders how she can dare accuse him of scarcely restrained violent tendencies given her own interactions). “If you don’t kill him that is.”

She closes the door on him before he can respond.

**

Lestrade had been pulled into the first of what was no doubt going to be many emergency meetings about the fallout from Trujillo’s manipulations in the Met, but Sherlock learns from an overly helpful Richardson that John had been released almost an hour ago and had returned to the flat, no doubt to feed the animal.

He is preparing to follow (he wishes nothing more than a shower and a change of clothes followed by a period of unconsciousness) when he spots Alice Toller seated on a small chair between a pair of desks. She is holding what appears to be a cup of tea, but--from the lack of steam--it is clear she has barely touched it.

She looks shattered, and he realizes on a visceral level that though the villain has been captured, the wreckage of the lives devastated by his actions remains. Sherlock has never known what to do with evidence of a victim’s pain, and he turns to slip past her without speaking.

“Hey,” she calls to him. Rasps really, her voice as raw as if she had been screaming. Perhaps she had.

Sherlock turns toward her but does not advance, and she rises from her chair to come to him instead.

“I heard from one of the Constables that you took in our dog,” she says. “I wanted to see if you’d be willing to keep watching him for a while.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “You don’t want him back?”

“I’m not in any state to be looking after him, and I think you’ll take care of him. Well,” she amends, “that other bloke will, I think. I don’t have anywhere else for him to go, and it would break Jo’s heart if he went to the pound.” Her face twists at the (present tense) mention of her lover. “She’d raised him since he was a puppy.”

He thinks he would feel less wrong-footed if she were crying. But this deep, wrenching grief is not something he knows how to respond to.

“What’s his name?” Sherlock asks her at last, cursing even as he says it at the triviality of the question.

It appears to be less trivial than he fears, however, because she smiles very slightly. “Gladstone,” she says. “After the Prime Minister.”

He has no idea who she is referring to, but he nods anyway. “I’ll tell John,” he says.

“Thank you,” she replies automatically, already returning to her chair.

Freed at last, he makes immediately for a cab and home.

***

Sherlock does his best not to think during the ride home, though he is only marginally successful. He supposes many would consider a near death experience something that would be understandably difficult to dismiss, but in truth, the narrowly escaped shooting does not dominate his thoughts.

The kiss does. It had lasted only an instant--a surprisingly light pressure, a brush of warmth--but Sherlock feels rocked to the core, his very foundation shifted.

But has it shifted to a degree that will allow him to overcome those same issues that have afflicted him since childhood? Is overcoming them even possible? His head aches, and while a part of Sherlock is glad that John is not there to add to his confusion (already far beyond what he feels capable of unravelling), another part wishes for his presence, as having him near works to incite his mind to new heights.

It is with equal parts excitement and trepidation that Sherlock climbs the stairs to their flat. He finds himself--absurdly--pausing on the landing in a moment of indecision.

What if John regrets their interaction in the alley? What if he is even now preparing to tell Sherlock that he wishes to move out of the flat and in with a flatmate capable of picking up after himself? One who will not become embroiled in life threatening situations (and then abruptly kiss his rescuer in a flurry of adrenaline and relief)?

Amusingly, it is the state of his clothing that at last spurs him to proceed. A pending confrontation with John or not, at least he will have an opportunity to change out of his ruined trousers.

When he opens the door of the flat, John is sitting ramrod straight and bound to one of the kitchen chairs, dramatically posed in the centre of their living room.

Sherlock knows immediately what has happened.

"Good day at the office, darling?" Moriarty questions, punctuating the question with an air kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

His enemy walks into view from the kitchen, leisurely stirring a cup of tea. Sherlock can hear the dog barking furiously from John's room above.

Sherlock looks at his flatmate. He is very pale, but he appears unharmed. For the moment.

"He has a gun, Sherlock," John says, voice low.

"Indeed he does!" Moriarty exclaims brightly, pulling a revolver from the waistband of his trousers. "Rather predictable as far as threats go. But still. Effective," he finishes in a sing-song tone, motioning Sherlock inside the flat.

Sherlock goes, closing the door quietly behind him and moving to stand near the door to the kitchen as Moriarty directs him. Sherlock's back is to the windows, and the space between his shoulder blades itches with the knowledge that it is likely in crosshairs.

"What? Nothing to say? Aren't you happy to see me, Sherlock?" Moriarty questions. "I would have thought you'd missed me."

"Not particularly," Sherlock replies evenly, mouth dry. There is a roaring sound in his ears, and he wonders vaguely if this is what panic feels like.

"Ah, liar," Moriarty says voice fond. He nonchalantly sets the tea down on the end table and picks up the flyer that had been posted to their door.

"Did you notice the resemblance?" he asks, holding the flyer up beside John for comparison, smirking at Sherlock all the while. "It took me ages to find a mongrel with just the right balance of blind loyalty and middling intelligence. But look at _that_. Right on target."

John jerks his head away from the flyer and glares at his captor. "You're not half as clever as you think you are," he says steadily.

Moriarty doesn’t spare him a glance. His attention is focused solely on Sherlock, and--as in his dream--the detective feels the confusing mix of terror and elation at his scrutiny.

"I had an excellent scene prepared for you once you responded. Very symbolic and, oh, complex," Moriarty continues, drawing the word out. "You would have loved it, I'm certain."

"I doubt it," Sherlock responds, voice taut. Moriarty gives him a knowing smirk, seeing through the lie.

"Of course, then you got yourself involved with that nasty little drug investigation, and you had no time to spare. It was very disappointing."

Moriarty sniffs childishly. "I must say, Sherlock, I don't particularly like to share." Here he looks pointedly to John, eyes narrowing with a sudden, dark maliciousness.

"No. You wouldn't," John says shortly. It was clear from his challenging stare that he has understood the subtext.

"Are you here to kill me, then?" Sherlock asks Moriarty to recapture his attention.

Moriarty widens his eyes in faux shock. "Why, no!" he exclaims. "No, no no. Not you. Not today, at any rate. No, my dear, I've come to collect you."

For all that he'd been half expecting them for weeks now, the words still hit him like the concussive burst of air from the bomb the month before. It seems as though his ears should be ringing.

"Collect me?" Sherlock echoes dully. His heart is hammering so furiously, he is certain that Moriarty must be able to see it.

John is watching him in obvious concern, and Sherlock is struck with a hysterical urge to laugh. Always such a protector, regardless of the fact that it is _his_ life that is in jeopardy here, not Sherlock's. Whatever else Moriarty wants, Sherlock is certain that his death is not currently the consulting criminal's plan.

Though perhaps ‘death’ isn’t such an inappropriate term after all, he muses distractedly. Sherlock is certain that Moriarty would be satisfied with nothing less than the complete and utter destruction of whatever pitiful ember of empathy Sherlock currently possesses: the ending of who he could potentially one day be with the solid, tempering, humanizing influence of someone he trusts at his side.

Moriarty hums in assent.

"Oh yes. You may not want to say that you missed me--I'm certain you're lying, by the way--but I will admit to a certain longing for your presence over the last month." Moriarty takes a deep, decadent breath, as though inhaling Sherlock’s scent. "So, being the clearly very proactive individual that I am, I decided to fetch you."

Moriarty walks closer on quiet feet, gun held steady. "And you _wanted_ me to fetch you Sherlock," he murmurs. His eyes, bright and mad, are staring fixedly at Sherlock's mouth. "You've been waiting for me to come for you since we parted at the pool. Don't bother to deny it."

Sherlock shivers involuntarily, and Moriarty grins at him fiercely.

"I won't," he answers quietly. He wonders if this then is the tipping point: that moment that everyone seems to be so certain will someday occur when he tosses off whatever exists of his threadbare sense of ethics to live life entirely at the whim of what is interesting and what is not.

He wishes the concept didn't appeal to him so strongly.

"My poor dear," Moriarty croons, walking ever closer. "I've been so _cruel_ to you. I gave you the taste of a challenge, an opportunity to use that lovely, twisted brain of yours to its fullest, and then it was all taken away in an instant. You've been so _bored_ , haven't you?"

Sherlock feels pinned by his enemy's intense stare. "Yes," he answers faintly. Truthfully. Moriarty's eyes glow with triumph.

"Sherlock," John calls from the living room, voice slightly desperate. He is ignored.

As in his dream, it feels as though the world is tilting on its axis. Sherlock steps back closer to the kitchen table on legs that are suddenly weak and unsure, sagging against it as Moriarty comes to stand in front of him. The change in position brings him down to Moriarty's height, and the man smiles, eyes gleaming.

"Oh, I like this," Moriarty says quietly. He is so close, Sherlock can feel the warmth of his body in sharp contrast to the cold barrel of the gun, which is now pressed against his side.

Moriarty's eyes hood as he leans in, moving his face along the line of Sherlock's neck a hairsbreadth above the skin in a false caress. Moriarty’s breathing has accelerated slightly, and his breath is oddly sweet as it warms Sherlock's skin. John and the dog have both fallen silent, and the sound of the street below is the only soundtrack to this moment of possibilities and decision.

Sherlock opens his eyes, which he hadn’t realized he'd closed, and looks at John over Moriarty's shoulder.

John's face is set and stoic as he watches them, jaw tightly clenched; but his eyes, that clear blue, are as steady and unwavering as always.

Sherlock closes his eyes again and looks away. He is surprised to find that making his choice isn’t as difficult as he had feared it would be.

He arches his back slightly, relaxing more fully onto the table with a sigh and feels Moriarty's grin as it moves along his bared throat. The man gives a murmur of approval as he wraps his free hand proprietarily around Sherlock's hip, continuing his movements along Sherlock’s neck.

Moriarty pauses near his ear, nose edging into Sherlock's hair, which is more dishevelled than usual.

"You belong with me," Moriarty whispers. "There's no point in pretending otherwise. They don't have a place for you, but I do."

He leans even closer, lips brushing Sherlock's ear. "Together, we can make the world _burn_."

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"Actually, I must decline," he says evenly, simultaneously throwing the hydrofluoric acid from his experiment into Moriarty's face.

Moriarty screams, stumbling back into the living room as he clutches at his face in agony.

The criminal had lowered the gun slightly in his seduction, and Sherlock is quick to grab for it. They grapple, Sherlock succeeding in twisting his enemy's wrist, and the gun flies free. It skitters through the kitchen and comes to rest against a cabinet.

"A poor choice, my love," Moriarty growls roughly. The acid had missed his eyes, but the skin across much of the left side of his face is beginning to redden and blister.

"Sherlock, get down!" John shouts.

Without hesitating, Sherlock pushes away from Moriarty and tackles John to the ground, chair and all, an instant before the snipers begin firing. The windows of the flat explode inward, glass raining down upon them as they huddle together on the floor. Sherlock presses his face into the crook of John's neck and grips his shoulders tightly. He can feel John's pulse hammering against him, and it is on this that he concentrates to mark the passage of the critical seconds they have remaining.

And suddenly it all stops.

In the distance, Sherlock can hear sirens as emergency response units spring into action, but beyond that, there is no other sound. He waits a full minute before daring to move, and even then he does so cautiously.

He lifts his head slowly. Moriarty is gone, the door to the flat flung wide in his escape.

Sherlock stares out at the flat's stairwell blindly, knowing there is no way to be certain that the man had truly left. That uncertainty, coupled with the absolute conviction that he'd be back, makes the hair on Sherlock's arms stand up.

Fortunately, as his acquaintances are so quick to point out, he is well accustomed to living dangerously. The thought amuses him, and he realizes he may be very slightly in shock.

"This is fairly uncomfortable," John says conversationally, still lying on the floor bound to the kitchen chair. Sherlock realizes belatedly that his elbow is digging into John's side as he crouches over his flatmate. John is pale, and Sherlock can see his pulse hammering in his throat. But he is alive. They are both alive, and Sherlock releases a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

His energy is seemingly expelled along with his breath, and he collapses onto John once again, his face pressed into his friend’s neck as he tries to steady his breathing. John takes his uncharacteristic closeness in stride and lies silently underneath him, despite the fact that his limbs are certainly aching from the ropes.

John smells good. The scent of his aftershave is subtle and spicy as Sherlock inhales slowly, regulating his breaths as the adrenaline leaves his system and his heart rate slows.

Sherlock’s hand finds John's where it is tied to the arm of the chair, and he wraps his fingers around his friend's as much as the awkward angle will allow. John grips back, and they lay there together in silence, fingers and bodies entwined.

"For a moment there," John says lowly, "I thought you would go with him."

Sherlock swallows thickly. His throat feels tight.

"For a moment there, I thought so too," he admits, voice as quiet as John's.

John's fingers are blunt and slightly callused as they run over Sherlock's. "Why didn't you?" he asks.

"Well, I'd hate to contribute to a situation where Sally Donovan was correct about something," Sherlock answers blithely, letting the clutch of his fingers around John's give lie to his words.

John lets out a surprised, hoarse laugh. "Oh, Heaven forbid," he says fondly.

They lay there until the police arrive.

***  
It isn’t until well after the last officer and crime scene technician have departed that Sherlock finds the text message on his phone.

 **You wouldn't be half as interesting if you weren't surprising. Though perhaps next time I'll kill you instead. Kisses.**

John is sweeping up the glass from their shattered windows--again--and must have seen Sherlock stiffen. He pauses.

"Is everything alright?" John asks, looking at Sherlock carefully.

"Same as always," Sherlock answers casually, sliding the phone back into the pocket of his coat where it lay draped over the chair. It isn’t anything unexpected, and at the moment he is far more interested in the present.

"Actually, better than the norm," he corrects belatedly. It is true, he muses. That sense of tension and pressure that had been weighing on him so heavily since his introduction to Moriarty had lessened considerably. As trite as it sounds, he is truly breathing easier.

Perhaps all he had truly needed was an internal recognition of the fact that _he_ was the only one who would ever decide the path he would take, regardless of the labels society was keen to assign to him.

He nearly grimaces at the simplistic, saccharine concept. John is clearly a bad influence on him.

"Mmm. Well that's good then," John says. He is smiling slightly, still holding the broom as he stands in their wreck of a flat. Sherlock abruptly wants to kiss him again.

"May I kiss you?" Sherlock asks bluntly, nearly giddy with his renewed sense of self-determination.

John's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t back away, and his expression slowly morphs into that warm, slightly sweet visage that he had worn in the alley. Without breaking their intense eye contact, John wets his lips slightly. It is done without artifice, but Sherlock feels something warm lurch in his stomach nonetheless.

"I imagine I'd be fine with that," John says, voice slightly gravely. "Though I have to say, you're not usually this poli-"

He is cut off as Sherlock closes the distance between them in three long steps and kisses him desperately, hands clenching on his shoulders to hold him tightly.

The broom falls to the ground with a clatter and rolls forgotten into the pile of glass shards as he clutches Sherlock back, hands tangling in his hair and forcing him to a more convenient angle as he kisses back with equal passion.

It is a fierce kiss, though it quickly becomes softer as they find their rhythm (naturally and effortlessly, Sherlock thinks almost giddily, like all their interactions) and pull back enough to keep their teeth from clashing. Their lips touch lightly for a moment in a sweet, gentle caress.

Until John opens his mouth, tongue breaching Sherlock's lightly parted lips, and the room abruptly becomes much hotter.

Their kissing is focused and intense, a dizzying lack of oxygen heightening the sensation. After a particularly skilled movement of John’s tongue Sherlock whines deep in his throat, and John pulls back slightly.

"Here, let me-," he gasps, pulling Sherlock to the arm of the couch and pushing him to lean back against it. It is reminiscent of the confrontation with Moriarty, and Sherlock's eyebrows rise in surprise.

John flushes slightly but gives Sherlock a look of determination. "I don't want to see you with him ever again," he says, voice low and heated. “Not even in my head.” His lips are swollen from their kisses, and Sherlock reaches out to pull him to his body again.

"No," Sherlock agrees vaguely and brokenly before their lips met again, the heat between them palpable.

Why had he waited?

John shifts even closer, and their hips fuse together. Sherlock feels John's arousal press against his leg and shifts instinctually to align their bodies and cradle John's hips with his thighs. Someone is moaning wantonly, and the miniscule piece of Sherlock's mind that isn’t hazed over in pleasure is embarrassed that it may be him.

Then John moves to create some truly lovely friction, and Sherlock’s mind blanks out entirely for a moment, lost in a flood of heat and lips and _want_ of an intensity he had never felt; hadn’t realized he could feel.

When he next opens his eyes--moments, minutes, hours later--John is alternately kissing and nibbling at his neck, his hand drifting gently up and down Sherlock's side under his shirt in a motion that is vaguely ticklish. Sherlock's own hands had somehow migrated to John's arse and are squeezing to the rhythm of their unsteady breaths.

"We should move to the bed," Sherlock gasps, using the leverage provided by his current position to grind his erection into John's.

John takes a moment to answer as he closes his eyes and breathes out heavily. Sherlock feels a momentary surge of satisfaction at his ability to reduce him to such a state before his friend's eyes reopened. His pupils are widely dilated in arousal, the blue irises nearly hidden. The look he gives Sherlock is heated and intimate, and the detective feels stripped bare. He realizes belatedly he is abortively thrusting against John's hips.

John smirks, and Sherlock feels his arousal twitch in response.

"Not to your bed, we won't," John says, voice low and hot as he leans in again and nips at Sherlock’s chin. "I've yet to see you do the sheets."

Not to be outdone, Sherlock moves in and kisses his pulse point, and John arches his neck.

"But your bed is further than mine," he whispers persuasively into John's skin, fingers drifting to flirt beneath his waistband. "It would take far too long to reach it."

All of a sudden, John pushes him sharply on the shoulder, and Sherlock falls back onto the couch cushions, his face blank with surprise as he blinks up at the former soldier.

John is spotlighted by the last rays of sunlight that have managed to creep around the surrounding buildings to reach their flat. Highlighted as he is by the golden panes of light, he gives the thoroughly appropriate impression of exuding warmth, and something in Sherlock’s chest unfurls.

John smiles at the thoroughly undone expression Sherlock is almost certainly sporting.

"We'll make do," John says purposefully as he removes his shirt and climbs on top of him.


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue:

Etching restored, the small, ornamental tree statue looks almost stately on the battered table, Sherlock muses rather distractedly much later. Though it does not offer itself for conversation as readily as his skull, he finds that he enjoys the sight of it with a simple pleasure he does not often afford himself. Or did not until recently.

“You’re wrong about yourself, you know,” John says out of nowhere, his hand tracing lazy patterns on Sherlock’s hipbone. They are sprawled across John’s bed (John has categorically refused to step foot in Sherlock’s room until his current experiment is cleared away), and the afternoon sun has begun to seep through the blinds to paint a warm stripe across the bed.

Sherlock follows it with his fingers where it lies along John’s shoulder. “Hmm?”

“When I met you, you called yourself a high-functioning sociopath. I don’t think that you are,” John clarifies.

“I don’t believe you’re qualified to diagnose a psychological disorder,” Sherlock replies, voice carefully modulated to contain his surprise (and light apprehension) at John’s words. Sherlock rolls slightly to lie half atop his flatmate, “unless your medical training was more comprehensive than the transcript I unearthed at Bart’s implies.”

“You’re a stalker, you realize that right?” John responds lazily. “No, I meant that it’s very clear to me, having now lived with you for several months, that you do not qualify as a sociopath.”

“Why are we discussing this?”

“Well, it seemed as though it were bothering you,” John says. “You’ve been out of sorts recently, so I thought it was something that bore clarification.”

Sherlock considers this answer. Admittedly, his behaviour over the last few days has been outside of the norm, but it still seems eerily as though John has managed to read his mind. He wonders if this is how it feels to the targets of his more detailed and startling deductions.

“And what led you to your conclusion?” Sherlock asks his flatmate. The sunshine has brought out the gold tones of John’s skin on his neck, and Sherlock leans in to taste the area to see if the flavour is in any way altered.

John squirms, but is not as distracted as Sherlock had intended. “It’s my understanding that sociopaths don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

Sherlock stops his teasing, suddenly anxious to know what John will say. “Yes, that is typically an indication.”

“Well, there you go then.”

“I don’t follow,” Sherlock replies, honestly perplexed. “I thought we agreed that altruism is not a part of my personality.”

John chuckles, apparently amused at the idea of ‘altruism’ applied to him even tangentially. “No, we’re still in agreement about that. But feeling something for someone else, relating to them, that’s something different.”

Sherlock lies still, but some piece of him must telegraph his tension to his friend, and John runs a soothing hand over his back before tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and looking him directly in the eye, smiling reassuringly.

“You felt for Alice Toller. It was all over your face when we were talking to her. And you obviously care about what Lestrade thinks of you, since whatever it was that he said to you caused a minor breakdown.”

“I did not have a breakdown,” he protests. John continues his list, speaking over him.

“And well, me.” Endearingly, John blushes as he says this. “I think it’s pretty obvious you care about me.”

“What if it’s an aberration?” Sherlock asks. “You’re not exactly the type of person one runs into every day, and thank goodness for that. I hate to think of what that would do to this country’s military pension plan.” Sherlock had meant to sound joking, but he realizes as he voices the hypothesis that the smallest flutter of fear has bloomed in his stomach. What if this, this new, beautiful thing, is something Sherlock is incapable of maintaining?

“I’m not going anywhere,” John replies confidently, “so you’ll have plenty of time to gather data before coming to a final conclusion.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand how John can be so certain. It may be due in part to ignorance (though he has an almost physical aversion to applying the term to John) of Sherlock’s full personality. In time, John will no doubt have ample opportunity to become acquainted with Sherlock’s many and varied faults. From his possessiveness of objects (and--though it has yet to be tested--no doubt of John as well) to his apathy in the face of another’s pain, to--

“Stop thinking so much,” John says, having the audacity to tweak his nose. Sherlock covers the slighted body part protectively.

“I fail to see how you plan to stop me,” he replies primly to make John kiss him.

Which he does.

 _Fin._

 

From: The Green Man Tree Oracle  
by John Matthews & Will Worthington  
 **WHAT LIES BEYOND THE THRESHOLD?**

Crossing thresholds is a way of moving from one state of being to another, but they can be frightening places, confronting us with uncertainty and change. Being creatures of habit, it is easier for us to stay with the known and familiar, yet if we refuse to confront what lies beyond the threshold we can remain in a stagnant condition. What is on the other side may be actively enticing you into a new experience, a lesson that will help you develop your skills.  
Beech can signify the death or end of something, but also stands for the changes that arise through realization. Since its gift is the relevance of experience, the presence of Beech in a reading suggests you should cross the threshold that is challenging you, gain experience from the unknown, seek revelation and increase your knowledge.

 _Ce que l'homme redoute le plus, c'est ce qui lui convient_. - What man fears most is what suits him.  
Henri Frédéric AMIEL, Journal intime (U.G.E.-Plon) 31 mars 1857


End file.
